Cheating Death: Those That Lived
by CragmiteBlaster
Summary: To cheat death is to survive in almost impossible odds. Seventy three tributes did it before Katniss and Peeta ever set foot in the arena. Whether they were brave, scared, vicious, insane or simply got lucky they all have a story to tell and all such tales, one per Victor, can be found within. Let it be shown how they made their mark on Panem in their own unique ways. [74/74]
1. Prologue: The Walk of Victors

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Hunger Games. They belong to Suzanne Collins.

 **Note:** Time for something new! I've been wanting to do this for a while now and, this being the new year and a time of new beginnings, I feel the time is pretty right for this little pet project to get off of the ground. We've seen this 'genre', for lack of a better term, of HG fic here an there and recently almost everywhere? A tale of all the Victors prior to Katniss and Peeta. Well, I'm throwing my hat into the arena and giving it my own personal touch. If you've read my Nameless Chronicles series you'll likely end up recognizing several of these characters. I'm more than up for the challenge (both of having 73 Victors and also not going overboard with word count per chapter, haha!) so what is there to say besides... let the story begin!

* * *

Peeta sighed, feeling the warm sun on his face as he slowly walked down a street of the Capitol. One of the few that hadn't had any damage done to it by the rebellion. It had gotten lucky, clearly.

"Nice day," Peeta said, glancing aside at his girlfriend who walked with him.

"I guess," Katniss replied, her eyes darting left and right. "Feels so strange that we're here... _**here**_. I'm amazed the citizens haven't made a charge at us yet."

"I guess we're just that popular," Peeta replied, wry. He took a deep breath in and out. "Plus, you know, there's probably numerous officials watching us right now and snipers ready to fire at anybody who looks at us funny."

"I guess," Katniss said, glancing at a passing Capitol family distrustfully. "I just keep expecting an attack any second. You saw the fighting. You saw people die... the games aren't over yet, Peeta. Not really."

"Yeah, they're not. It's hard," Peeta agreed, gazing up at the clear sky. "...The rebels won, real or not real?"

"Real," Katniss said, a hand gently laid upon Peeta's shoulder. "Wish we could've just stayed home in Twelve, honestly."

"Yeah, me too. But the letter did have that little clause saying we had to be here," Peeta reminded his girlfriend, humourlessly. "Victor's party, for however much the word 'party' really applies."

"I guess it's a party to die for," Katniss said, a grim smile on her face. The smile soon vanished, replace with a soft frown. "Been a while since we saw the other Victors."

"We all needed time to... well, I was gonna say relax but we hardly even did that, really," Peeta shook his head, gently reaching down to hold Katniss' hand. "Together?"

"Together," Katniss agreed.

The letter had come the previous day, requesting the attendance of Katniss and Peeta at a 'party'. Specifically, a party of remembrance. A party to remember the Victors who had died in the grisly time between the first Games and the end of the Second Rebellion, and furthermore a party for the Victors who still drew breath to remember their own struggles and find their way forwards.

Peeta sighed again, remembering his own hesitation to attend the party and Katniss being all but ready to hide out in the woods beyond Twelve for a month until the heat died down. But then the letter went into extra detail, a detail Peeta couldn't help but see as a perfect reason to attend this little 'party'.

" _With the battles over and the nation starting to resemble something close to stable... there have been twelve confirmed surviving Victors beyond the initially assumed seven survivors. They will be in attendance to share their own stories and fill in some gaps of knowledge that remain empty."_

It hadn't been an easy sell, especially with the party set for the next day, but Peeta had wanted to meet with the Victors, the fellow sufferers, whom he hadn't gotten the chance to cross paths with previously. Watching them on stage during a Victory Tour, assuming they'd been Victors within his own lifetime, didn't really mean much of anything. Least of all when compared to a proper sit down and lengthy talk.

Katniss had argued, perhaps even viciously, and Peeta couldn't blame her for it. But, around three in the morning – a grand total of fifteen hours after the letter had arrived in the first place – she'd relented and agreed to attend, provided of course Peeta stay beside her and that she'd not have to engage in more discussion than she wanted. Peeta took this to mean none at all and assured he'd do his best to make the day pass by peacefully.

"So, who do you think survived?" Peeta continued three streets of talking later. "We know Johanna, Haymitch, Annie, Enobaria and Beetee will be there. Anybody else? I mean... there are those who died before this all started and those we know who died since..."

Peeta trailed off, his thoughts and Katniss' own cast towards those who had died for them and the rebellion. Finnick, Wiress, Mags, the female morphling – Porsche, he firmly reminded himself – and all the other brave, powerful men and women.

"...Maybe Spud made it out?" Peeta said after a few moments. "I mean, well... we both know even by the standards of a Victor he overcame a lot to get out of that tundra."

"Maybe," Katniss said, distant. "I guess we'll see when we get there."

"Yeah. Yeah, we will," Peeta agreed, taking the cue to gently end the topic.

Silence was the only thing between the couple, aside the gentle touch of their hands, as they continued to walk through the Capitol streets to their destination. The Golden Goose, the letter had called it. A nice, quiet cafe.

" _How quiet can it really be if they all know we're there?" Katniss had said the night before. "They can just see us through the windows."_

Peeta was inclined to agree, but whether he agreed or not the fact remained that The Golden Goose was where they were needed. So, that's where he would be going, each step bringing him closer to his destination.

"Peeta, stop," Katniss said suddenly, putting an arm in front of Peeta.

"What is it?" Peeta asked. "Something wrong?"

"Peeta... look," Katniss said, softly. "...Just... look."

Peeta did exactly that, letting out a low hum as he gazed at the notably long street in front of himself and his lover. The sidewalk in front of them was particularly detailed, covered by various young faces along with statistics on place below them. Their name, their District, their age at the time of Victory...

Peeta looked up, glancing at the grand sign that was impossible for all but the blind to have missed.

The Walk of Victors.

"You know, suddenly it makes sense why they picked the cafe at the end of this street," Peeta remarked, letting out a low breath. "A party of remembrance... a walk of remembrance."

"Yeah," was all Katniss said.

The pair stood silently, unmoving, for a few minutes. It was Peeta who eventually broke the silence.

"We'll take it slow... side by side and hand in hand?" Suggested Peeta, gently squeezing his lady's hand. "We could go another way...?"

"No. Let's go this way," Katniss replied, a glimmer of fire in her eyes. "We won, so did they... well, as much as a Victor can win anyway. I think we owe it to the dead to spare a moment of silence for each of them and know their names."

"I agree," Peeta said, smiling. "I guess there's only one place to start then. The beginning."

And so, Katniss and Peeta took the first few steps down the street and gazed down at the first face imprinted upon the sidewalk. Both were silent as they gazed down at the nervous, shy face of the first Victor in the history of the Hunger Games.

"I'd never have expected District Nine to have been the first District to have a Victor," Peeta said, looking down at the face below. "I know they show these games in school, but... I'm still amazed Mizar Aldjoy managed to do it."

"I guess it's just like us... who'd have expected District Twelve to have been home to the spark the second rebellion needed?" Katniss replied, looking at the ground just like her boyfriend did.

"Touche," Peeta agreed.

The Star Crossed Lovers resumed their silence, thinking back to the shy farm boy who went on to the crowned as the first ever Victor of the First Annual Hunger Games.

* * *

It begins! Just the prologue to the main event, of course, but I think this was a decent start? Plus, in my own personal interpretation, the Capitol having a 'walk of Victors' kind of just seems like a logical thing to do? In a sense, it's a more grim version of the Hollywood Walk of Fame. Stay tuned for more!


	2. Mizar Aldjoy

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Hunger Games. They belong to Suzanne Collins.

 **Note:** The first Victor. Not a mighty pro-Capitol teen nor a brave rebel... just Mizar from Nine. If his name sounds familiar for reasons other than my fics, well, at a past point in time I referred to the Victor list from Mockingjay's film set as canon. I eventually kinda just didn't like most of the names nor the ratio of Victors per District and made up better names. The point is, Mizar was named from that and I liked his name (and didn't want to go around changing a bunch of names as that'd just get confusing lmao). Anyway, no sense stalling, here's the first ever Victor!

* * *

"What do you think it must have been like to be in the first ever Hunger Games?" Peeta asked, hesitant. "I mean, it was so new... prior to mutts, prior to Careers... it was so different."

"Just as sick as ever," Katniss replied shortly. "Anybody could've won... just happened Mizar was that one."

"Yeah," Peeta said, taking a deep breath. "From what I hear, he was nice. Very sensitive, but why should that be a bad thing?"

"Why indeed," Katniss agreed, looking at Mizar's imprinted face in the sidewalk.

* * *

 **1st Annual Hunger Games**

 **Name:** Mizar Aldjoy

 **Gender:** Male

 **District:** 9

 **Age:** 15

 **Kills:** 1

* * *

Shy as a mouse.

Mouse boy.

Squeaky.

Those were all things Mizar was rather used to hearing in his life. It had never bothered him any, given he'd always had quite a fondness for mice when growing up. He was always the sort to carefully pick one up and place it safely outside rather than kill it or leave it for the cat to snack on.

When he was a boy, he'd been asked by his little sister Maizie if he'd ever wanted to go on an adventure, to do something more. He had, naturally, shook his head and said that he was very much content with the slow paced life on his family's farm. It was peaceful, serene, quiet... perfect for a 'mouse boy' like himself.

Mizar hadn't had any role in the rebellion at all, unless hiding like a mouse counted. He'd spent a lot of time curled up in a bull within the wheat fields, praying that nobody would find him and that the battles would just leave him alone. Against all odds he'd managed to get through the rebellion without a scratch.

But then the Hunger Games were instated by President Orion and all it took was his District's smug Escort pulling his name out from the boy's reaping bowl to ensure that there was no more hiding from then on. Mizar stood on the stage, trembling like a leaf, as he surveyed the hopeless crowds of children and parents beyond the pens they had been stuck into.

Mizar took a good look around, already feeling like it was the very last time he'd ever lay eyes upon his beloved, quiet home. He dared cast a look at his District Partner, a sickly little twelve year old by the name of Petra, and said one line that would become associated with the Hunger Games forever more.

"May the odds be ever in your favour."

He'd meant it nicely. Petra knew he had, too. But the powers that be saw the clip and merely saw a snappy tagline for their new murder game.

* * *

Mizar had performed exceptionally poorly at the parade, being shy as a mouse. He had no capacity for attention and all the jeers, cheers and laughter was far more than his shy, anxious self could take. He ended up fainting off of his chariot as soon as he and the other twenty three tributes had reached the training centre that was to be their prison for the short time before the Games began.

It was lucky for himself and the continued health of his spine that he'd fallen into the arms of the girl from District Ten. A shy, freckled brunette one year his junior hardly holding herself together any better looked down at him, silently setting him down onto his feet.

"Thank you," Mizar had said, his voice cracking so much that it was hard for some to know what he had said.

"You're welcome..." the girl said, diverting her eyes timidly.

Mizar later found out, while watching the parade recap on TV and the Games hosts mocking his anxiety, that the girl's name was Sophie.

Prior to crying himself to sleep, Mizar decided that he rather liked Sophie.

* * *

With the Capitol's extreme thirst for blood in the wake of the rebellion and how the Games as new a concept as they were terrifying, there was only a single day permitted for training. Mizar stood amongst the crowd, trying to keep his breakfast down as he listened to the Head Trainer explaining the basic rules to them.

He'd zoned out for most of it, but hearing 'all but one of you will pay for your crimes with death' had told him all he felt he needed to know.

The crowd around him was a varied lot, all sharing one key thing in common with one another... fear. Most rebel children had already been killed and the young war heroes who helped the Capitol were either dead, over eighteen or too injured to be of any use for setting an example, so the reapings had all been one hundred percent random.

Gazing at the crowd of tributes, Mizar felt that it certainly showed. Among the highlights were a combat medic from One, a shrimpy boy from two, a young married pair from Six, a very angry little girl from Eight and Sophie, of course.

Mizar ended up unable to keep down his breakfast when he started imagining which of them would end his life.

* * *

The day of training had even the oldest and bravest of the tributes on the verge of an anxiety attack. After all, with a death game looming and little time to prepare it was a tall order to stay calm.

Mizar had shied away from the weapons, intimidated by the blades and of the other tributes trying their hand with them, most to very little success. The first half of the day had been spent learning about edible plants, finding water and how to camouflage himself.

"They can't kill me if they cannot find me," Mizar had mumbled to himself. "They can't find me if I can stay fed and watered, always moving..."

Every hour that passed was marked by a loud gong, one that never failed to make at least twenty of the tributes yelp or jump in alarm. The Gamemakers and other staff hanging around had found this hilarious. Mizar disagreed.

With only three hours to go Mizar had eventually forced himself to at least try with one of the weapons. Ever hopeless, it had taken remembrance of something his little sister had one said to make him focus.

" _Even the word hopeless has hope in it."_

The weapon turned out to be the bow and arrow. Having played around with his own bow and arrow when growing up on the farm Mizar had some competence with the weapon. He'd passed the time lamely firing arrows, his expression ever sombre even as many of them hit the target without issue at all.

"Mind if I train here?"

Mizar hadn't hesitated to step aside so Sophie could have a turn. She favoured a crossbow, carefully firing it at the target, hardly able to say a word.

"Not bad," Mizar had said, weakly smiling. "You might win."

"I don't want to hurt anybody," Sophie had whispered, pale faced. "Maybe... maybe if we do nothing. Nothing... well, the trainer said the Cornucopia has a month of food and water, right? Maybe if we just didn't fight and we lived peacefully?"

"...That sounds lovely," Mizar agreed, his weak smile becoming a little bit less so. "Maybe it could happen."

The later irony of this conversation would haunt Mizar for many, many years to follow.

* * *

The tributes tried to sleep, but many of them took a long time to fall asleep. More than just a few didn't manage to fall asleep in the first place. Mizar had been among the former group, eventually going off on a wander, through any unlocked door he could find.

His wandering had led him up to the roof where he'd sat down, content to watch the night sky and the moon for what might have easily been the very last time in his life. Having only scored a 5, he wasn't very confident.

"Can't sleep either?"

Mizar smiled, figuring that if this really was his last night alive then he could certainly do worse than to spend it alongside Sophie.

"Nope," Mizar had said. "I mean... how can anybody sleep? Tomorrow..."

"I'm not gonna fight," Sophie vowed, sniffling. "I'll just grab a crossbow and leave. At least then I can hunt animals for food, you know?"

"Can I come with you?" Mizar asked. "I think, whatever happens, we might do better together."

"Sure, let's do it," Sophie agreed, smiling in spite of her tears.

The two had shaken hands, soon spending a lot of the night just talking to each other about anything that came to mind. Sophie spoke of her eventful job as a delivery girl, Mizar told his companion about his little sister, Sophie mentioned her pet rabbit, Mizar mentioned a few jokes about the cruel President Orion that his Grandpa had told him, Sophie cried for her mother, Mizar sobbed for the world without the Hunger Games that was long gone.

Both thanked the other for their company, eventually falling asleep back to back upon the roof. This was the same position they were found in the next morning when it was time for the Hunger Games to make their grisly debut.

* * *

The interview, if that was even the right word for it, hadn't been anything quite so grand as it would be in future years of the Hunger Games. The tributes had all been marched, cuffed and chained, onto the Hovercraft and once locked into their seats were asked a single question by one of the Capitol newscasters, Mortimer Minch.

"How do you feel, Tribute?"

The answers had been, predictably, quite varied. Dazzle from One had only been able to sob, Slate from Two had honestly said he was scared, Fuse from Three replied she was trying not to think about it, Brooke from Four had barely been able to whisper that she wanted her daddy, Edison from Five had mumbled about feeling he was smart enough to survive, Mazda from Six vowed he and his wife Nissan were going to be the last two and then refuse to fight, Ty from Seven spat in Mortimer's face, Nilli from Eight told Mortimer to go eat a dick, Petra from Nine had thrown up on Mortimer's shirt, Russ from Ten had ignored Mortimer outright, Harvest from Eleven dared express confidence and Rose from Twelve had only been able to sigh in pure depression.

Mizar, frozen still as a state in his own seat, had told Mortimer he truly had no idea how he was feeling whatsoever.

* * *

The first thing Mizar saw when he rose into the arena in his padded bottle green tribute outfit was grass. Grass, grass and more grass. The arena around him was a massive meadow as far as his eyes could see, with hills and small clusters of forest further away from his launch pedestal.

For the first time in his life Mizar had seen snow. The area right around the Cornucopia was coated in a blanket of it, mainly for effect, but also in hopes of the white being stained with red assuming things went exactly as the Capitol was hoping.

The countdown had caused screams, cries and around three tributes to wet themselves. Mizar was one of the criers, unlike the boy from eight on his left who was one of the latter group.

When the Games had begun there was no rampaging sprint to the golden Cornucopia for supplies like in a typical year. Instead, Mizar joined the rest of the tributes in a slow, caitious amble towards the Cornuciopia. They milled around, gathering supplies while eyeing each other with distrust and more than a little fear. But no killing. Not even a small slap.

Mizar slung on a blue backpack, grabbing a bow and a quiver of arrows. He had just grabbed hold of a large container of water, rising up to see where Sophie was when it happened.

 _ **IT**_.

The moment Panem never, ever forgot.

Some say her hands were shaking too much, others say the crossbow had been rigged to fire too easily when it had been made, a very tiny minority mostly ignored past the Second Rebellion claimed she did it on purpose.

Whatever the case, Sophie had fumbled just a little too much with the crossbow in her hands and it had fired off its arrow.

A shrill, weak cry filled the clearing. All acting as one, the tributes stared in horror at the source of it all.

The girl from Seven, Jakki, had the arrow pieced horribly in her gut. She hardly managed to rasp out something unintelligible before she coughed up some blood and collapsed on her back. Sophie ran towards her, wailing and crying already.

Mizar didn't get a chance to act before the first of hundreds and hundreds of cannons boomed throughout the arena. Jakki was dead, and twenty three remained.

Any chance of peace was as dead as the redheaded girl from Seven. Moments later it became as dead as Sophie when Ty from Seven, furious over the death of his District Partner he'd grown up with, marched towards Sophie with an axe in hand.

One swing was all it took for the girl Mizar had become fast friends with to fall lifelessly to the grass, gone before she had hit the ground.

Mizar squeaked like a terrified mouse and ran. He ran and ran and ran. By the time he had evacuated the area and vanished over the nearest hill and towards a forest Russ from Ten had tried to attack Ty, only to miss and accidentally cut the throat of Henry from Eight. Nilli had shrieked and shoved Russ down. Ty had kicked Edison over when the glasses wearing boy had ran at him, assuming he was on the attack and not knowing he just wanted to get around him.

The Cornucopia Bloodbath was born.

Overreactions mixed with fear and tempers led kids who may have been friends in another world into enemies out for one another's blood. The battle raged on and on for over an hour with all manner of brutal fights going on. Screams echoed, roars were bellowed, blood coated the snow and the metal of the Cornucopia and the Capitol were loving it.

All the while, Mizar ran for his life.

Dazzle had her skull broken by a crate being smashed over it, Edison had his head chopped clean off, Petra was gutted, Harvest was trampled by upwards of five other tributes, Colton from Twelve was stabbed by Nilli only for the girl from Eight to be strangled by Rocky from Two. On and on it went, the blood that soaked the ground only getting thicker and thicker.

In the end King from One and Kai from Four duelled, sword against trident as many bodies lay around them. Slate, the only other tribute still at the Cornucopia having hidden behind some crates, tried to make a run for it. King took his focus off of Kai for a split second to slash Slate to a swift death, but this was all the time it took for Kai to land the killing blow upon King himself.

As the sun went down with Kai standing all alone in the eerily quiet meadow, panting hard, the cannons finally began to boom for all of those who had died after Jakki. On and on they went as the cameras gleefully panned over the cluster of corpses strewn all over the meadow, many of them still clutching onto the weapons they'd been using up to the moment of their deaths.

Eighteen tributes were killed by the Cornucopia that day.

* * *

Mizar, scared out of his mind, had settled in a small grove for the night. He lay on the ground, physically unable to sleep at all, the screams he'd been close enough to hear echoing in his head and the many cannons still ringing in his ears. It failed to register for quite some time that he was already near the end of the Games, but when it did his tears only fell thicker over the loss of innocent life.

He was quiet as a mouse when the death anthem played that night, a look of sheer horror upon his face at the massive number of portraits of the dead shown in the sky. He'd could hardly comprehend that they had all been alive not even a full day before.

The sight of Sophie's portrait and the memory of her vow to not fight back in the training centre had him crying until sunrise.

Mizar was deemed as having the lowest odds of winning out of the six who had survived the massacre. Even twelve year old Sal from Eleven was deemed to have slightly better odds, having been able to stab the boy from Three halfway through the bloodbath, even if non-lethally.

Only Fuse from Three, Kai from Four, Mazda and Nissan from Six, Mizar from Nine and Sal from Eleven had survived to see another sunrise.

* * *

The second day was eerily quiet for the most part, given how most of the tributes ended up falling asleep shortly after sunrise due to getting almost no sleep the night before. Mizar was among them, having fallen asleep in a crumpled heap amongst a few berry bushes.

Mizar didn't know it, of course, but Kai had gotten an early start. Wanting to minimise his own trauma he'd decided to end the Games as quick as possible, resolving to fight his way out. Kai didn't know it, but his willingness to fight and kill was to be repeated hundreds of times by other tributes in years to come.

Scythe in hand and all the supplies of the Cornucopia to himself Kai had hunted down Mazda and Nissan, the pair asleep in each others arms. Eyes filled with remorse he bought the scythe down, killing them both before they even knew what had happened.

Mizar was awoken by the double cannon fire and, after some time freaking out over the situation he was in, began to jog aimlessly through the furthest reaches of the arena in hopes of not being found by anybody.

* * *

He was found.

The terror of the Bloodbath and the fear throughout the night had shattered Fuse's sanity, leaving her laughing mad and a far cry from who she had been. She and Mizar crossed paths after midday which led to a chase through the meadow.

Mizar had found there was no pleading or reasoning with the insane, only fighting or fleeing. He chose the latter, only stopping when he was physically unable to keep on going. He had gotten lucky, having collapsed only a little before the forcefield.

Fuse tripped right over him before she could put her knife to use, ending up fried by the forcefield.

The sight of her body had Mizar hiding like a mouse amongst a nearby bush for the next several hours, his knees drawn up to hide his tears from the nation. He only moved when the Gamemakers used a powerful wind – the most their technology could really do back then – to physically blow him away so that they could collect Fuse's corpse.

One again, Mizar ran.

* * *

He ran into Sal.

It wasn't any real contest in any sense of the word. Mizar pleaded, he begged, he tried everything he could think of to stop death from arriving.

He failed, Sal killing himself. The smaller boy had no hope whatsoever that he would be able to win the Hunger Games and after seeing all the traumatising carnage the day prior decided to take his own life on his own terms.

The fact he was one step away from home didn't do a thing to improve Mizar's broken mood, the poor boy wandering aimlessly through the arena as the darkness descended while knowing the last tribute was likely hunting for him.

* * *

They met in a particularly snowy part of the meadow on the third and final day.

Kai was more than willing to fight and Mizar wasn't ready to die. With escape cut off by the powerful wind and rainstorm that kept pushing him back, Mizar had no choice but to take part in the battle and make his last stand.

The nation, especially Four and Nine, watched that morning as the two boys circled around each other in the pouring rain while firing off arrows at each other. Neither boy was a particularly bad shot, but the stress of the situation and all the trauma thus far had both fighting far from capacity.

"It doesn't have to be this way!" Mizar pleaded.

His only response was arrows, Kai having committed to winning the fight, not talking until the battle was won and he was out of the arena.

This never came to pass. Mizar eventually got off a lucky shot, his arrow piercing through Kai's right foot. As the fisher boy howled in agony Mizar acted on reflex, notching another arrow.

"I'm sorry."

The arrow hit Kai in the chest, his death quick and painless from the moment of contact. The cannon boomed as Kai crumpled over and before Mizar could say a word the trumpets sounded.

He was the first person to ever hear himself announced as the Victor of the Hunger Games. He was also the first to drop to his knees, pleading for forgiveness as the hovercraft descended.

* * *

Mizar was always the 'mouse boy' back home and continued this trend when he went home. He became a very reserved person for quite some time. He'd stay in his room of his fancy new house for hours on end, staring up at the ceiling and unresponsive to his family. Every shadow he saw, to him, was a tribute coming back to kill him. He just wanted to hide away in his mouse hole and never show his face ever again.

It wouldn't be until the Second Hunger Games, when he saw the poor pair of Tributes he had to mentor, that he'd snap out of his depression and start the legacy that he would be known for throughout his life and after it.

Being a friend to the poor and those unable to help themselves. He opened his home to the homeless, bought several poor kids out of the arena alive and tended to literally leave money laying around for those in poverty.

Nobody, not even Mizar himself, would ever know it... but he was the entire reason the Second Rebellion had a chance of happening.

During his Victory Tour when in Twelve he passed a starving young boy on his way back to the train station. He took pity on him, sharing a kind word and a small fortune of five hundred Caps to give the boy a chance of surviving. Thanks to Mizar this boy did not starve to death that winter.

The boy was named Ashford Everdeen. The boy who would eventually be Katniss' Grandpa.

* * *

"Rest in peace," Peeta whispered.

"Him and all the dead," Katniss muttered, pained. "Victor or tribute or... civilian..."

Peeta gently squeezed Katniss' hand as they moved on to the second Victor down the long path. The face of a rather sleepy, lazy even, girl looked up at them.

"Pliny Aransio," Peeta said, unable to hide the smallest of smirks. "The girl who literally slept through the Hunger Games and then won."

"A far cry from Johanna," Katniss said, chuckling humorlessly.

* * *

There we have it! The first Victor, the sensitive and timid everyman Mizar Aldjoy. Perhaps he's just a normal guy, but honestly with how theoretically anybody can win the Hunger Games... why not have the first Victor be just a normal guy and from a rather underused District as well? Expect him to pop up here and there in other Victor's tales, as thus with other Victors along the way. One down, seventy two to go!

* * *

 **Stats**

 **District 1:** N/A

 **District 2:** N/A

 **District 3:** N/A

 **District 4:** N/A

 **District 5:** N/A

 **District 6:** N/A

 **District 7:** N/A

 **District 8:** N/A

 **District 9:** Mizar Aldjoy (1st Games)

 **District 10:** N/A

 **District 11:** N/A

 **District 12:** N/A


	3. Pliny Aransio

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Hunger Games. They belong to Suzanne Collins.

 **Note:** The second Victor... and something of a tone shift from Mizar's chapter. Every Victor is different after all, and that includes the way in which their tale is told. Not all of them will follow the same format, in ways big and small. You'll see what I mean. Anyway, Pliny! If you've read Spoiled Sapling then you'll remember Nettle mentioned this character a few times. If you haven't, well, read on and enjoy the show. :D

* * *

"You couldn't get away with what Pliny did in our day and age," Peeta remarked, smiling down at the face of the second victor on the sidewalk. "Haymitch once said her victory caused Orion to outright develop an ulcer."

"Serves the bastard right," Katniss said, looking at the sleepy girl's face. "I guess she's the reason why staying in one place for too long would make the Gamemakers angry?"

"Pretty much," Peeta said, nodding. "I've never seen her Games, just heard of them. Makes you wonder how she pulled it off and if there was any deeper plan to her sleeping than we know."

"I guess Panem may never know," Katniss said, softly.

* * *

 **2nd Annual Hunger Games**

 **Name:** Pliny Aransio

 **Gender:** Female

 **District:** 7

 **Age:** 14

 **Kills:** 1

* * *

Panem had been at its most hopeless since the first Hunger Games came and went. Even the victorious District Nine had lost their female tribute despite Mizar's victory and the horrific fact that this was to be a yearly thing forever and always had, simply put, done nothing to make the population feel any less destroyed. Even Mizar's Victor Tour where he'd been polite to all of the Districts had done nothing to raise the hope, but merely rub in the feeling of death and defeat.

This was, of course, exactly how President Skarloey Orion wanted things to be. The more miserable and downtrodden that the population of the Districts were, the easier and easier it was for him to maintain a stranglehold on the nation and ensure his power remained uncontested for another year.

He laughed at the reports of depression across the nation.

He smirked at the silly, futile protests against the Hunger Games that he ensured were met with bullets.

He applauded the way the Peacekeepers were smashing up various parts of each District to instil fear and pain in the District insects.

The current President of Panem, known both for his almost wild mane of black hair and his somewhat bloated figure – it was an actual rule of Panem that calling him fat merited execution – was in his main office of his mansion, having just finished a meeting with his equally bloated and cruel ministers, all very satisfied with the complete success of the first Hunger Games. The instant they had ended planning had started off for the Second Games and by this point everything was ready to go for the mayhem.

All that was needed, really, were the next twenty four tributes that he'd have the pleasure of seeing kill or be killed.

It was fortunate indeed for the President that the next Reapings were due to start in less than five minutes.

"This is the best idea I've ever had," Orion said to himself, pouring out a glass of highly expensive wine. "I should've come up with the Hunger Games years ago."

Sipping from his wine, the portly President watched the fancy televison in his office come to life as the reapings began. He surveyed the crowds of terrified children, his smirk widening.

"The next generation looks nice and scared. They'll be docile," Orion remarked, toasting his glass to the TV.

The reapings passed without incident at first, no tribute daring to make a run for it or try anything funny. With every tribute that was reaped a fact about them would flicker onto Orion's laptop screen via a live read.

 **District One Male, 15, Shiny Kentworth – Professional Clarinet Player**

 **District One Female, 17, Glitterdust June – Assistant Jeweller**

Orion paid little mind to the names and facts he was getting. To him, all of the tributes were nothing more than props there to die horribly and send a firm message of who was in charge. Nonetheless, Orion continued to watch the reapings and all the scared children mount the stage.

Everything went fine until the District Seven reapings. The Escort pulled out a paper slip and read out the name of one Pliny Aransio, but nobody approached the stage. There was a very awkward silence for several long moments, nothing happening.

"Come on, where are you? Show yourself little brat, it'll be worse if you don't," Orion muttered, getting a dark look in his cruel, grey eyes already.

The mics had been tweaked to pick up noise better, in hopes of finding the hiding tribute. For a few more seconds the silence continued.

A sudden, loud snore had Orion yelling in alarm and almost falling off his chair. By the time he had gotten himself stable he saw that the tribute, whom had apparently fallen asleep in the crowd, was now on the stage. The short girl was a redhead much like the girl from Seven the year before, a tired look in her eyes.

Orion ignored the crying boy being Reaped, instead glancing at his laptop screen.

 **District Seven Female, 14, Pliny Aransio – Caught sleeping on the job at the saw mill seventeen times a month, at minimum.**

Orion didn't spare much thought for how the lazy girl could fall asleep in a noisy saw mill or why she hadn't been fired yet. He focused morose on what kind of a death awaited this useless girl in the very near future. Even her District Partner, a thirteen year old missing an arm, seemed to have more chance.

"This is going to be a great Hunger Games," Orion said, ever so smug.

It would be, though not in the way the tubby tyrant wanted...

* * *

Orion watched the parade from his presidential balcony, enjoying the show of the well bred stallions, fancy chariots, hilarious costumes and trembling children. He couldn't help but nod approvingly as the boy from District Two (Titanius Morag wasn't it? A body builder, perhaps?) waved to the crowd. The audience loved it, throwing roses in his direction.

"I've got my money on that boy," Orion said, confident. "He has the right idea. He knows who is in charge."

"He's certainly got plenty of muscles," one of his ministers agreed. "He should be able to swing a sword just fine."

Orion only half listened as his ministers weighed out the pros and cons of each tribute, choosing who they were going to support. It was an unspoken rule Orion had laud claim to Titanius and it was most unwise to challenge such a claim.

"I say, that girl from Seven... what's she doing?" a minster asked, disdainful.

Orion frowned as the girl who delayed the reapings was focused on by the cameras. Pliny was laying over the front of her chariot, fast asleep in her tree costume and oblivious to the world. As she snored and drooled with her District Parter observing her awkwardly, Orion felt himself getting all the more angry. The sleepy runt hadn't shown any fear since her reaping, only sleepiness.

"She should be terrified," Orion hissed, clenching his fists. "...No matter. A day of training will sort her out. If not, then the arena will."

The parade had no further issues and the bets were maid amongst the ministers, with Orion shelling out twenty thousand caps upon Titanius. He and his ministers had all laughed when the janitor put down ten Caps on Pliny.

Orion assumed the lesser man had done so in jest, but you know what they say about assuming...

* * *

The president felt his mood improving as the day of training went underway. He stood amongst the Gamemakers, watching the tributes scurry around like bugs at his feet and wondering which of them would emerge alive. Titanius, he was sure of it. The boy seemed loyal enough to the Capitol and had age and size on his side to back him up.

"I feel like we could get more action out of the tributes if they had longer to train," the Head Gamemaker, Gossamer, had said around midday.

"We'll talk about doing so in the Third Games once this year's Games are over," Orion replied. "I want at least ten of these little bugs dead by the first death anthem. Make it happen."

"Yes sir," Gossamer said, saluting. "We've got some new traps this year we think you'll find quite satisfying."

"Will the Districts find them terrifying to watch?" Orion asked, smirking.

"Naturally," Gossamer assured, his smirk matching that of the president. "Of course, that's all for tomorrow. We still need to score these kids... care to keep watching the show? I must confess, the way they scamper around is rather amusing."

"I quite agree," Orion said, toasting his glass to Gossamer's own.

Orion sat lazily in a grand armchair to watch the tributes as they trained for the looming death-match in the arena. The pair from Three struggled to work out how to properly light a fire while the boys from Eight and Nine spent time training with throwing knives, albeit not with a great amount of success. The girls from Six, Ten and Twelve were content to pass the day by at the survival stations, a step above how the boy from Four cried away the hours at the climbing frame. Orion laughed at it all, finding it all very humorous to see the kids try and fail at gaining skills.

"Seems like Titanius is the only one with any real chance," Orion noted, watching as the tough boy stabbed a training dummy with a spear three times in a quick sequence. "He'll be an acceptable Victor."

"I think Shocker has a chance too," Gossamer added, thoughtful. "I'd put money on him if I was allowed to bet."

"Shocker? Which District was he from again?" Orion asked.

"Boy from Five," Gossamar said, pointing to the large boy hitting a dummy with a mace. "Wrestling champion at his school three years in a row."

Orion dismissed the boy from his mind, seeing him as lacking the killing instinct. Glancing around the room he suddenly paused, realising something was amiss. Or, rather, _someone_. Counting up the tributes quickly he felt his temper rising, his face turning red to match it.

"Where is the District Seven Female," Orion hissed, gritting his teeth.

Gossamer glanced around quickly, paling when he saw no sign of the girl. In an instant he had raised an alarm and started a lock down of the building. Sirens wailed and red lights flashed as the twenty three tributes present were all herded together and told to remain still for the time being.

"Find the missing tribute!" Orion screamed, red in the face. "Find her! If she has set one foot where she is not supposed to then have her enter the arena with both of her arms broken!"

It turned out, after an hour of noisy sirens and Orion screaming himself hoarse, that Pliny had never left the tribute building in the first place. In fact, she hadn't even left her bed that morning. She'd been awoken by a Peacekeeper shaking her and, when asked what she had to say for herself, could only quietly grumble about being woken up from her good dream.

Orion pinched the bridge of his nose as he watched Pliny as she trained. Her entire plan seemed to be 'build a hammock and go back to sleep'. Already this sleepy teen had caused him more annoyance than even some of the deceased rebel heroes had during the Dark Days.

"At least she'll be dead by tomorrow," Orion told himself, chugging back a bottle of wine to sooth his temper.

The fact Pliny only earned a training score of four - "She displayed a good knowledge of survival skills and seemed to understand how to tie extremely complex knots" had been Gossamer's reasoning – only made Orion all the more confident in his assumption the bothersome girl would be dead in the dirt within the first hour.

Assuming things rarely was a good idea when it came to The Hunger Games, be it a tribute or even the President doing so...

* * *

The interviews this year were a slight step up from the previous year. Once again Mortimer asked the tributes how they were feeling, but this time mixed it up with two other questions. Every tribute was also asked what their basic plan was and got a personal question added in, mainly relating to a hobby they were known to have.

Glitterdust from One felt nervous and the notably shy boy Beep from Three was terrified. Shrimp from Four said his plan was to not die, while Jerky from Ten was ready to run for his life and never stop running. Titanius from Two spoke briefly of how he liked to sing at the local bar in his area of Two, a contrast to how Shocker from Five mentioned his wrestling success with a flicker of life in his blue eyes.

Pliny gave no response to any of this, of course, as she'd fallen asleep about two minutes into the hovercraft ride. Mortimer decided to just skip over her, feeling that nothing of worth would be lost by ignoring the tribute most likely to die first.

* * *

President Orion and his ministers had opened the finest champagne bottles they owned, pouring out drinks as they settled to watch the Games play out. Bets were made, light banter was had and a few smug remarks against the tributes were tossed around. But soon enough they sat quietly, watching as the countdown ticked down to zero.

"Do you suppose anybody will hit the forcefield this year?" one of the ministers asked.

"Doubtful," Orion said, sipping his wine. "Gossamer had the arena this time made to be two miles wider in all directions to make this less likely to happen. More entertaining when they kill each other, I think."

The arena for the Second Games was a bit more complex than the first one had been. Gone was the snowy meadow and instead a pine forest greeted the tributes as they rose into the arena. The nation was treated to some shots of the forest depths, the steep cliffs and a rather big lake full of crystal clear water. Orion had to hand it to Gossamer, he and his team had done a fine job.

When the gong rang, marked by the cheers of the President and his ministers, Jerky from Ten kept to his word of planning to run and sprinted off into the forest. The other tributes made their way to the Cornucopia, notably taking it at a faster speed than the year before.

Orion smirked, knowing it was only a matter of time until the massacre of the previous year would start up all over again. His smirk only widened as several of the tributes armed themselves with various sharp weapons.

Perhaps it was the paranoia that somebody would strike them down first or perhaps it was to stop the same kind of incident from the year before being able to happen a second time. Whatever the case, Orion was left laughing when the pair from Eleven stabbed Beep from Three the moment he picked up a crossbow.

From there, the outcome was inevitable.

This time several tributes had the good sense to stop what they were doing and run away into the pine forest that surrounded the clearing of the Cornucopia. It was a smaller bloodbath, but that didn't stop all the ministers from cheering and applauding as several youths were cut by swords, brained by maces, shot with arrows and, in one particularly brutal case, smashed head first into the side of the Cornucopia itself.

The cannons fired one after another, each one making Orion's mood get better and better. Transmissions to his laptop showed the reactions in the Districts and the heartbroken wailing of the families of the dead. Even the families of the survivors were hardly doing any better, especially if their child had committed murder.

Orion began to open another bottle of wine as the cannons finished firing, sparing a glance at the TV at the footage of the remaining tributes making their separate ways through pine forest in search of hiding places.

"So, which kids died?" Orion asked, starting to carefully pour another drink.

"Twelve in total," one of his ministers – Zeus, was it? - said, looking at his own laptop's live transmission. "Boy from One, both from Three, girl from Four, girl from Five, boy from Six, boy from Seven, both from eight, girl from Nine, boy from Eleven and boy from Twelve."

Orion had almost spilt his wine upon realising a certain redhead was missing from the list of the dead tributes.

"Wait, you mean the District Seven Female survived?" Orion asked, turning red. "Explain."

Lucky for Zeus, that was the moment where the highlights were played. Each surviving tribute had their actions in the bloodbath shown. Orion couldn't even feel pleased that Titanius had slain the boy from Twelve with a mace, not when he saw how Pliny had survived the opening battle.

During the chaos she had ran into the Cornucopia, grabbed a big loaf of bread, climbed into a chest at the very back of the golden horn and hidden inside it beneath a blanket. With bread in hand and several water bottles within the chest laying around her she had already fallen back to sleep.

Orion cursed and spat, yelling at the screen, shouting at Titanius – the only tribute still at the Cornucopia – to get back in the horn and murder Pliny. His shouts were left unheard, the strong boy from the Masonry District instead choosing to head directly south to scout around the area.

It took two whole glasses of wine for Orion to calm down, assured by his ministers that there was no way the girl could win and that it was very safe to assume that either another tribute would return to kill her or that the Gamemakers could simply fire off a trap before long that would take her out.

Assuming was never a good idea...

* * *

The sun rose on the second morning with ten tributes still alive, two having died during the night. Glitterdust from One dying after being shoved off a cliff by Shocker from Five, and Apricot from Eleven passing away after eating from one of the five nightlock berry bushes in the entire arena.

Most of the tributes were slowly ambling around, afraid to break into a run in case it gave away their positions. Pliny, meanwhile, had remained asleep. She'd done literally nothing since the Games began, unless sucking her thumb counted.

Orion was officially sick of it and ordered Gossamer to demonstrate the new traps on this bothersome little girl. The Head Gamemaker had been happy to obey, simply telling Orion to stay tuned and try not to blink.

It was around midday, right after Combee from Nine sprained his ankle from falling down a hill, that Gossamer set off the first of the new traps. Being the kind to enjoy starting slow and building up to a big finale he began by activating a massive burst of wind targetted at the mouth of the Cornucopia. It was a strong gale that sent crates, weapons and all sorts of supplies hurtling around the clearing. In seconds the interior of the Cornucopia was a mess.

Orion's satisfied smirk vanished when he realised Pliny hadn't even woken up for a moment. The blast of wind wasn't able to target the very back of the Cornucopia as it was simply in the wrong sort of angle.

A screaming fit and two more pints of wine consumption followed this embarrassment, the deaths of Shrimp from Four and Filly from Ten not doing much to improve his mood.

* * *

The next day Gossamar tried again, warned to do it right this time by Orion. While most tributes were headed in the direction of the lake, all in need of water and not quite remembering where the Cornucopia was, Pliny remained asleep inside the golden horn. She had only woken up for two brief periods of time, merely nibbling bread, drinking water and peeing in a bottle. Hardly riveting television.

This time the strong wind was left behind and the second trap unleashed. While a light shower of rain was turned on for the afternoon, mainly for some atmosphere and a way to soak the other seven tributes, Gossamer had something much worse in mind for Pliny.

Rocks.

Simply put, dropping rocks from above was deemed as a decent idea for an early trap. The hovercraft in the sky had several prepared, all around triple the size of an average man's fist, and was ready to drop them, at a moment's notice.

Orion watched smugly as the rocks began to rain down, smashing onto the Cornucopia. It was surely only a matter of moments before one would break through and smash right onto the chest Pliny was inside and, more importantly, right on top of her skull.

He went from smug to snarling when it turned out that his order to 'make the Cornucopia out of golden metal and able to stand the rest of time' made it impossible for the rocks to actually do anything to break inside. They hadn't even dented the metal at all. Pliny had woken up from the noise this time, but soon shrugged and went back to sleep.

For the next hour Pliny sucked her thumb and Orion screamed so hard that his throat burned. He warned Gossamar, right before Coalette from Twelve had her throat slit by Carol from Two, that he was losing his patience.

* * *

Seeing Jerky run into a tree improved Orion's mood somewhat, especially as Titanius caught up to him and slayed the boy with a sword a minute later, but Pliny's continued existence angered him in ways he could hardly describe. She was making the Capitol look stupid and the worst part was she was clearly not even trying to,. The damn girl just wanted to sleep.

If the increasingly erratic President had his way then he'd send her off to an eternal rest by lunch time.

While Shocker, sick at himself, held Moira from Six under the lake water until she drowned Gossamer tried for a third time to get rid of Pliny.

It should have been obvious from the start that making trees fall onto the Cornucopia was not going to work. The golden horn was simply too strong to be affected by any of them and the slight incline of the ground right in front of it made any trees that fell there just roll away, preventing the possibility of trapping Pliny inside. Not that she'd have noticed such a thing.

"Why won't that girl die..." Orion hissed, his eye twitching madly.

His ministers, all yes men at heart, did not dare speak up. When their President was angry it was a great risk to one's job, and life, to talk to him. One wrong word and a firing squad awaited the poor bastard to piss him off.

"Gossamer!" Orion screamed into a phone. "I don't care what your excuse is, I don't care how you do it, just kill that little shit!"

Gossamar promised that he had the perfect plan and it would all become clear the next day when the finale began.

* * *

As Muttations were still an idea that hadn't left the 'Hunger Games drawing board' and wouldn't for at least two years, Gossamar's idea was much simpler than one may otherwise assume it to be. If traps couldn't enter the Cornucopia to kill Pliny then why not just have another tribute do the job for them?

The rain continued to fall that day, Pliny sleeping soundly through it and the remaining four other tributes trying to find shelter. The moment loud thunder boomed the finale officially began.

The four tributes began to rush back to the Cornucopia, herded along by powerful winds and trees falling every so often. They were fast and it seemed inevitable they would reach their destination in around half an hour.

Orion could hardly contain his excitement at the looming, painful death of the sleepy girl who had caused him so much fury.

The death of Carol from two via a falling tree did nothing but amuse him, her never being a tribute he'd paid any mind towards anyway. Similarly, seeing Combee collapse from the pain in his sprained ankle and get splatted by a rock dropped from above had him howling with laughter. He could only assume the rest of the Games would be similarly satisfying.

That's when fate decided that it would be ever so much fun to take a steaming shit on the smug President and punish him for his assumptions.

Titanius and Shocker crossed paths on the way back to the Cornucopia, the latter slipping right into the former on the muddy forest floor. The fight was savage, lasting a full five minutes as the storm raged on. Orion would admit that Shocker was doing better than he had expected, but it seemed inevitable the older and stronger Titanius had it in the bag.

The issue was that the wind had been set too high and ended up knocking over a tree that had not been set to fall over. No sooner had Titanius lopped off Shocker's right arm a tree fell down and crushed the boy from Two into a pulp, dead before he knew it. Shocker's agonised screams filled the pine forest.

They were nothing to Orion's screams of fury that filled the Capitol that day.

"...Sir, Shocker is very close to the Cornucopia," one minister timidly added.

"He's bleeding out," another minster added, wary.

Orion could only watch, his temper getting all the worse by the second, as Shocker limped his way towards the Cornucopia. The boy moaned in pain, practically whimpering as the agony continued. A flash of lightening filled the sky as he staggered up to the Cornucopia.

This lightning strike woke Pliny up, the small girl finally getting out of the chest with a yawn. As she got out, she gasped upon seeing Shocker collapse a few meters away.

"Oh my goodness!" Pliny exclaimed as she ran to the fallen boy.

Orion could only watch, as much horrified as sickened, as Pliny gently comforted the battered boy in his clear final minutes He howled, agonised from his wounds, and pleaded for Pliny to end his unbearable suffering.

Orion swore, practically turning blue from the lack of oxygen, watching as Pliny grabbed some poison that had been laying around in clear sight ever since the powerful wind several days ago. Gently stoking Shocker's hair and mumbling words of comfort Pliny helped him swallow a few drops of poison.

He was gone, painlessly, less than twenty seconds later.

The cannon startled Pliny, but the loud trumpets had her utterly alarmed.

"What's going on?!" Pliny squeaked.

Pliny gasped in awe, stunned as she was declared as the Victor of the Second Annual Hunger Games.

Orion swore viciously for the same reasons, forking over a huge chunk of money to the lowly janitor who bet on Pliny's victory. Red in the face, twitchy eyed and full of murderous rage he made the snap decision to have Gossamer hanged for his failure to kill this bothersome little girl.

* * *

Pliny's victory was deemed as complete national embarrassment for the Capitol. She'd done literally nothing aside for the bare minimum and her one kill had only been possible because of Titanius having earlier wounded Shocker so badly. The tiny teen sat on the victor's throne, a crown on her head and very much overcome with surprise at how it had all unfolded.

"Thanks for the crown," she had politely mumbled when Orion had, per his own rules he had written, crowned the nation's newest Victor.

Orion didn't bother saying a word to her. The sooner she was out of his sight and he was back in the luxurious hot tub of this mansion, the better.

Pliny went home, unharmed and with almost zero mental scarring from her experience. Orion could do all he wanted to make his people suffer and increase quotas, sure, but he couldn't do a thing to change the fact the Districts were privately laughing at him. _Him_!

* * *

"There's nothing? Seriously?" Orion whispered, enraged.

"I'm afraid not, sir," replied Zeus. "It turns out Pliny lived at an orphanage. No family who survived the Dark Days. No friends either from what we can tell."

"Any boyfriend or even a girlfriend?" Orion asked, desperate.

Zeus slowly shook his head.

"We're stuck with her and we can't make her suffer for any of her non-actions," Zeus said, defeated.

Orion went into a frenzy of rage that lasted upwards of ten hours, by which time twelve of the rooms in his mansion had been utterly decimated.

Of course, Pliny knew absolutely none of this. As far as the small redhead knew, she'd just gotten very, very lucky and was grateful for it. She settled down that warm summer day upon the roof of her new mansion. Laying on a deckchair, clad in a swimsuit and with a drink in hand, she could only smile.

"Life is good..." Pliny said, yawning as she settled down for a good sleep.

* * *

Peeta let out a low whistle, shaking his head.

"If only it was so easy as to sleep through the entire games," Peeta mused, wistful. "Imagine if that was all we'd needed to do instead of all the fights and... and everything..."

"Yeah," Katniss said, looking jealous as she gazed down at Pliny's face. "Some girls have all the luck."

"In a way, we got lucky too. I mean, we survived the Hunger Games. Twice," Peeta said, as he and Katniss moved on. "I guess in a sense we're sorta like Pliny."

"How do you figure that?" Katniss asked, curious.

"We both really annoyed a President of Panem," Peeta said, a faint smile on his face.

"That's putting it lightly," Katniss remarked, snickering.

The young couple moved on a few paceds soon coming to the next face on the sidewalk. The firm, serious face of a young man looked right back at them.

"Museida Selkirk," Katniss noted. "Wasn't he the one they called the 'hermit crab'."

"Yeah, he was," Peeta confirmed, lightly nodding. "From what little I've heard, the name fits."

* * *

And there we have it, Pliny's national embarrassment / victory. I've always been a guy to find it sort of funny when people sleep through catastrophes, so I figured what if somebody somehow slept through the Hunger Games? Naturally it had to happen early on, prior to Career Packs, Mutts and the most complex of traps. Hopefully you guys like this little gal more than Orion does, haha! Two down, seventy one to go. :D

* * *

 **Stats**

 **District 1:** N/A

 **District 2:** N/A

 **District 3:** N/A

 **District 4:** N/A

 **District 5:** N/A

 **District 6:** N/A

 **District 7:** Pliny Aransio (2nd Games)

 **District 8:** N/A

 **District 9:** Mizar Aldjoy (1st Games)

 **District 10:** N/A

 **District 11:** N/A

 **District 12:** N/A


	4. Museida Selkirk

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Hunger Games. They belong to Suzanne Collins.

 **Note:** You know what they say, three is a crowd and in this chapter we meet the third Victor to join the 'Victor family'. A fair contrast to Mizar and Pliny I would say, but more variety is always a good thing in my personal view. Might be hard to make every single Victor 100% unique, but I am more than up for undertaking this particular challenge. Not much to really add, so let's begin and meet the 'Hermit Crab'!

* * *

Katniss raised an eyebrow, having to repeat the words once again.

"Hermit crab?" Katniss asked, confusion dripping from her words.

"Yeah, that's what they apparently nicknamed him," Peeta said, nodding.

"How? I mean, look at that. It says right there he got five kills... that's not what a hermit of any kind would do," Katniss said, shaking her head. "No way did this guy hide."

"Well, you're right, he didn't... he wore a big hermit crab shell as armour," Peeta explained, glancing down at Museida's fierce face. "That's what Finnick once said, anyway."

Katniss stared, uncomprehending for a few moments.

"...What?" Katniss said, about as a dry as the desert from the Fourth Games.

* * *

 **3rd Annual Hunger Games**

 **Name:** Museida Selkirk

 **Gender:** Male

 **District:** 4

 **Age:** 18

 **Kills:** 5

* * *

My jaw aches as I chew on the raw clam meat. Beastly stuff, but I know I've had worse in years gone by. Not like it's going to matter once I get out of here anyway. If it meant cheating death then I'd eat an entire truckload of raw clam meat, to be perfectly honest.

I knock back the meat with a gulp of water. Not gonna be long until I'll need to boil some more of it, but at least I'll be fine until sundown tomorrow so long as I'm careful.

I stand by the sea, letting the waves come up to me and cover my feet in the salty water. In this arena it's really the one reminder I've got of home. The one thing keeping me from going crazy like that kid from Five did. At that point I was really just doing him a kindness, taking him out of this place.

That's what I keep telling myself anyway. I mean, straight up calling myself a monster sure won't make getting home any easier.

Just one more reaping and that was it. Just one more reaping and then I age out. Only had to do it twice before, so what was one more time? Unlucky, that's what. I remember standing on that stage, smouldering in anger as the Escort babbled on and on and on.

At least my District Partner, already dead, wasn't anybody who I would call a friend. I'm pretty selective about company.

Eventually I move on from the sea and start aimlessly walking down the beach. It was a tropical island that we got thrown into this year and already we've reached the sixth day. By default, it's now the longest Hunger Games there have ever been. I can't help but wonder what the record will end up being in years to come. Weeks? Months? I make myself sick just thinking about this shit keeping up for so long.

Eventually I settle down behind some boulders near the waves, laying my back on the sand. Sighing, I drink more water.

"Just a few more days," I tell myself. "A few more shitty days and you're free, Mus."

I guess it could be worse than it is. A tropical island suits me just fine, easily better than the past two arenas would have been, and I'm not exactly weak or anything. Six foot four, plenty of muscles and, not that it matters if you ask me, a fine tan that had the Capitol women giggling. The life I've led in the care home full of constant hard work at the dockyard has really forced onto me the fact you have to work like a dog if you want anything in Panem.

It's worked out for me so far. I managed to work hard enough to get my own place in Four – not much, but it's mine – and it's helped me survive to the top six of this year's Hunger Games. I guess my odds are looking pretty good right now. Besides the throbbing cut on my left hip and the bruise on my forehead I've not got much to complain over. I have food, I have water, I have a trident.

I'm alive.

If Four is ever gonna have a Victor, I'm gonna be the one to pull it off. Compared to the previous tributes from my District I'd say I'm the strongest, no contest.

In the first Games Kai was a restaurant worker and Brooke was just a quiet kid.

In the second Games Shrimp was constantly crying and Paddle was blind.

As for this year, my District Partner was called Bait – a lanky girl with frizzy hair and thick glasses – and she got gutted like a fish at the Cornucopia by the girl from Ten.

I didn't know that girl's name, but I broke her neck about five seconds after she killed Bait. I never knew Bait, but I'm still loyal to my District.

I close my eyes, trying to block out the memories of the shit that went down at the damn Cornucopia.

"Just five to go. Just relax," I tell myself, settling down for a small nap.

* * *

The sound of scuffling wakes me up in an instant. I roll around, grabbing for wherever the hell I left my trident, spotting a figure running off down the dark beach. I'm about ready to just let the poor bastard leave – they don't seem very big or scary anyway – but the fact my backpack is gone has me on my feet.

Of course, they just had to take my shit. Of course they did.

"Get back here!" I yell as I start to run after them.

They don't say a word, fleeing desperately towards the top of the beach where I'll no doubt lose them in the thick tropical forest. My black backpack won't be easy to see in the darkness.

I don't know who this person is, the darkness making it impossible to get a decent look at the colour of their uniform, but what I do know is they robbed me and I might die without the contents of that backpack.

I act on instinct, rearing back to throw the trident.

I put my arm over my eyes, not wanting to see what comes next. But I sure hear the shit that follows the whoosh of the trident through the air, every fucking bit of it. The other tribute, a boy based on the agonized voice, collapses in the sand with the trident pierced right into his back. By the time I narrow the gap and see the tomato red jacket – District Six, then – he's already almost gone, the sand around him coated a terrible red.

I sigh, shaking my head. One pull has the trident back in my hands. One more downwards stab has the boy dead and the cannon firing across the arena.

"Four to go," I mutter, grabbing my backpack and stalking off further down the beach.

I try to act tough, putting on cold look for the cameras that are surely pointing right at my bruised face. Better they see me looking tough than looking tearful. That's three kills now. Maybe I won't have to make any more.

Fuck that. Just a childish hope. I know full damn well I'll have to make at least one more. After what Pliny did last year I swear they've been setting off some traps on people who stay still for longer than an hour for any reason besides a quick nap and even then there's little patience.

* * *

After eating more clam meat, raw per the norm, I settle on the sand to collect my thoughts. The finale is probably gonna be soon and so far the Gamemakers seem to like making things get far more dangerous when hardly anybody is left. Then again, there's a new Head Gamemaker this time around so maybe he'll take it easy on us.

Yeah, _right_.

"Just four left out there," I mutter, glancing around in all directions. "Might even be watching me right now. Shit, they might even be better armed."

I never went back to the Cornucopia after the first day. The way the white sand that surrounded it ended up crimson as far as the eye could see was more than my stomach was able to take. It's entirely possible somebody has the lion's share of what's left at the horn and is geared up perfectly.

I'm not the suicidal type, so I'm not planning to storm the Cornucopia. If I'm gonna arm myself more than I already am, I'll have to find something laying around. Maybe a big branch or some sharp coral?

I mark out the numbers of each District on the ground, One through Twelve, trying to work out who is left. The easy part is knowing the District and gender of those left aside from myself – girl from Two, boy from Seven, both from Eleven – while the hard part is remembering what they even looked like. It feels like an eternity ago that we started this thing.

I can't help growling, remembering how we got two days of training this year and got outright ordered to thank them lest we face a whipping. Six tributes got whipped, myself included.

Best I can remember is that the pair from Eleven were lifelong friends, so they're probably together right now. I think the girl from Two was related to Peacekeeper, so she probably has some idea of how to fight. Boy from Seven, who the fuck knows?

I figure it's getting close to the point where staying still will get me punished, or fucking killed, so quickly flat out the sand again and set off down the beach.

It must be an hour later when I find a large shell on the sand. A few vicious pokes inside with my trident confirms it's empty. A few test lifts shows me it's not overly heavy either. Still, it's a thick shell and has a few spikes on it too.

Looks like I just found my armour, if I could just think of a way to strap it to myself...

* * *

"Why the fuck did I think this was a good idea?" I let out a sigh as I waddle my way along through the tropical forest, practically crab walking.

It had seemed like a good idea, using vines and my knowledge of knots to bind the large hermit crab shell to my back, but now I'm wondering if it might actually be possible to die of embarrassment.

Probably still less painful than what I did to that boy last night. Not to mention the way that Ten girl screamed right before I broke her neck or how the boy from Two met his end when I impaled the trident in his guts on the third day.

I need to just think less and focus more.

I've probably been performing the world's most embarrassing walk for two hours before thunder booms through the sky and rain begins to falls upon the island.

I narrow my eyes, my trident gripped hard. Doesn't take a genius to know that the finale has begun.

"Ok, where are you guys," I mutter, slowly turning in a circle. "Come on out... let's end this..."

Nobody comes out to fight me, but the wind sure picks up after a few moments. It's nudging me to the left, so that's where I start heading. It's never wise to swim against the current, or I guess walk against the wind in this case.

I'm not willing to test the Capitol's patience any more than I'm willing to let a tribute gut me.

* * *

My waddle turned into a desperate speed walk when the trees began to catch on fire. A few flames fell onto the shell, harmlessly, but at this point I'm sweating from the combination of humid rain and the fire closing in every second.

"When this shit is over I'm never going near fire or out in the rain for the rest of my damn life," I hiss, my teeth gritted.

I force myself into a run when I hear a scream ahead of me. Just as well since the fire is getting faster now. The once tropical paradise is starting to look like what the care home's owner, Mr Barb, calls a 'holiday from Hell'. Still, better this hellhole than being stuck at the Capitol.

My gasp in air, forcing my legs to keep working all the harder once a cannon booms. Three left to go and I can get back home.

I don't get any time to wonder who it was that just died when I crash through a cluster of hedges and start falling down the muddy hill. A cannon fires by the time I am midway down, shouting and cursing myself hoarse.

A third cannon fires by the time I hit the bottom, a sickening crunch filing my ears. For a while I just sit here, gasping for air. One left, Just one more to go and I'm free.

Back to the slow life on the docks, the hard work I've always enjoyed, filling my hours with plenty of tough distractions. I'll... why are my pants getting damp?

I'm recoiling in horror the instant I see the blood pooled under me. Shit, shit, shit! Fucking fucker! It takes a while before I realise it's not my blood, not that this cheers me up. Not when I see the bodies of the pair from Eleven laying dead, bloody faced on the ground.

I lose the clam meat I ate earlier when I see the pile of crushed gore that used to be the girl from, Two. The vile scent of it is worse than low tide, sending me crashing off through the woods.

I'm a man, practically. But the blood on the shell and soaked into my pants has me shaking like a little boy.

One left. One left. One left.

* * *

After a night of staggering through the woods, hardly even thinking, I finally find him back at the place this shit all began. The Cornucopia.

The boy from Seven is perched atop the Cornucopia with a crossbow in hand. He looks scratched, raw even, as he tiredly glances around. Lucky for me he doesn't spot me or I'd be no better off than the pair from Eleven.

"No good ever came from a crossbow in the Games," I mutter, shaking my head. I can't help thinking of the massacre two years back and the way the Elevens killed the boy from Three last year when he picked one up. "No good at all."

I'm seated here for a while, lost as to how I can get closer to him and not get seen. The wind picking up comes off as a warning for me to get moving.

The moment the Seven boy turns away to take a bite of his bread is when I make my way into the bloodstained clearing, taking care to not make a sound. I only dare move a few meters before I freeze, turning around and ducking down. I'm tense, silent as a still sea.

He doesn't seem to react. When I carefully back up a few steps, earning no reaction, it occurs to me that the boy doesn't even realise I am here. The shell is the perfect camouflage.

"I'll be home soon," I hear the boy say.

He's wrong. That fact is made clear when I turn around and step closer to the Cornucopia, finally in range. I hurl the trident with whatever might I've got left.

He'd dead before he falls off the Cornucopia, sprawled out in the bloody sand.

I spit out some of the trickles of blood in my mouth, casting away all my gear. I don't care about the cannon, I don't care about the victory trumpets and I sure as fuck don't care about any of the bastards in the Capitol.

I just care about going home, back to normality. Back to how it all was. Back before this entire nightmare ever got started.

* * *

It's hours before I get any peace at the after party, away from those stupid Capitolites clamouring for a picture with me. Here on the balcony things are a lot quiet, just me and the night air.

Nobody can see me cry out here.

It's never gonna be the same ever again. Already I've been told my old place has been destroyed, my things all taken to the Victor's village. Already I've heard over and over how the accidental kill with the giant hermit crab shell is the 'best death of the Games so far'. They keep calling me 'the hermit', they keep talking about the way the families cried 'when their District lost'.

When did this world get so fucked up?

I don't know how long I hide out on the balcony crying - surely not long enough – but I'm not even close to done with crying this shit out when the doors open.

I'm quiet as the dead tributes themselves when Mizar and Pliny, the two Victors prior to myself, step out. They don't speak, just standing quietly for now.

"We understand the feeling," Mizar says, quiet. His wide eyes are about as haunted as they were the when he got out of his own arena. "The guilt, the pain... we get it."

"Yeah..." Pliny adds, softly yawning. "We do."

I shake my head, about ready to leave.

"How? I'm not like you," I say, tears in my eyes. "I fucking _killed people_. Not when there was just one left like you two. I killed five people, even when I could've walked the other way."

I make my way past them, not wanting any company. Solitude suits me better, always has done and always will. I ignore them as they call after me. Maybe I'll be more up for talking in the morning before we all leave, maybe I won't be.

If people are calling me a hermit, then that's what I'll be. A hermit, all alone. I don't think I want any company again after all this shit. Not after what I did to those kids.

* * *

"They say that he never left his house except for Games season," Peeta said, sympathetic. "I guess he really took to the hermit label. I can't blame him. Killing... it really gets to you."

"It does," Katniss agreed, looking away. "Nobody really wins the Games in the end."

The pair were silent as they moved onwards to the fourth face on the sidewalk. A calm looking young man looked back up at them, an eyepatch over his left eye.

"Baron," Katniss said, looking down at the fourth Victor. "The first ever Volunteer."

"And not the last either. Do you know why he volunteered, specifically?" Peeta asked, curious.

"No," Katniss said, shaking her head. "Do you?"

Peeta simply shook his head, lost.

* * *

Not all tales have happy endings, or even bittersweet ones. Museida survived the arena, but he sure ended up as quite the broken young man. Even the oldest and strongest tributes have their demons after all, and many don't cope particularly well with them. An isolated sort of man, what might lurk in his future when we next see him?

* * *

 **Stats**

 **District 1:** N/A

 **District 2:** N/A

 **District 3:** N/A

 **District 4:** Museida Selkirk (3rd Games)

 **District 5:** N/A

 **District 6:** N/A

 **District 7:** Pliny Aransio (2nd Games)

 **District 8:** N/A

 **District 9:** Mizar Aldjoy (1st Games)

 **District 10:** N/A

 **District 11:** N/A

 **District 12:** N/A


	5. Baron Overwhill

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Hunger Games. They belong to Suzanne Collins.

 **Note:** No sense slowing things down, on with the next Victor! No Careers, Sponsors nor Mutts yet, per say, but time is passing and the Hunger Games meta is starting to take shape little by little. Thus, time to meet our first Volunteer of the many in Panem history. You know what they say, the road to Hell is paved with good intentions. Let's find out how!

* * *

"Was he a Career?" Katniss asked after a pause.

Peeta considered the question.

"I don't know," he admitted, tapping his chin. "Volunteers from Two tend to be, but I think I remember reading in a book they didn't start training kids to kill until after the Fourth Games had ended."

"I'm surprised it took them that long," Katniss remarked, looking down at the face of the first ever volunteer. "Think he was like me, and you? Volunteering for the sake of another?"

Peeta shrugged, having no idea.

"I guess we could ask Enobaria once we're at the party. If anybody still alive would know, she would," Peeta suggested a moment later.

* * *

 **4th Annual Hunger Games**

 **Name:** Baron Overwhill

 **Gender:** Male

 **District:** 2

 **Age:** 18

 **Kills:** 8

* * *

"Lung infection," the doctor says.

At the same moment Sal commits suicide in the first ever Hunger Games, Baron feels as though his world is falling apart around him. Those two words in that exact order, hearing them used to describe his mother feels almost as painful as the grisly fates of Slate and Rocky the previous day.

Well, almost.

"What can be done?" Mr Overwhill asks, gritting his teeth already as he tries to suppress the pain.

The doctor is sympathetic, but doesn't try to mince words. Mr Overwhill has felt plenty of loss in the Dark Days, even when on the Capitol's side, and what's a little more on top of that in the end?

"Unless you live in the Capitol or are in possession of a fortune then there's nothing to do except wait for the infection to take her away," the doctor says, apologetic. "There's little I can do, aside from slightly lessening her pain."

Mr Overwheill storms off soon after that, taking his rage out on the wall outside and a few passers by. Baron, a quiet fifteen year old lad known to his peers the brainy one in the school, sits himself by the bedside of his mother. She rests quietly for the moment, but the way her face is a little pale and the issues she has with breathing... it all makes too much sense for Baron's liking.

He's there until he is made to leave, being told visiting hours are long over. Throughout the walk home and most of the night the lanky boy tries to think of some scheme, some desperate plan, anything that might gather the fortune needed to cure his mother's ailment. It is well known in Two, after all, that lung infections from work down at the quarries lead to slow, agonising deaths.

He doesn't come any closer to finding an answer.

Listening to his mother's shaky breathes in the hospital the next day, he hardly notices at all when Mizar Aldjoy is crowned as the Victor of the First Annual Hunger Games.

He does, however, notice when Mizar is suddenly reported on the news as the richest boy in all of District Nine. That's when the gears of his mind begin turning and a plan, a desperate and very risky plan at that, begins to form in his mind.

* * *

He tries asking his father for help. Alas, his 'scrawny whelp' of a boy has never shown any interest in physical activities before now, being more of an indoors kind of person. Physical education is the one subject he's failed to master, after all.

"I want to be prepared in case it's me next year," Baron says. "It makes sense, Sir. You're a soldier, I'm eligible to be reaped. I need help."

"You'd be dead the instant that you got picked," Mr Overwhill replied, dismissively.

Baron doesn't push it, having never quite gotten along with his father. A high ranking soldier and an academically inclined son don't tend to mix very well. It was Mrs Overwhill who had always bridged the gap between them. A gap that was getting wider with every day she was in the hospital.

Baron goes it alone, waiting until his father is out on a patrol or at the bar with friends before starting his own training. He wants zero questions being asked, especially when Mr Overwhill will only end up refusing to let his son volunteer and embarrass him on TV.

Jogging around their section of the District, lifting rocks up and down, turning down the limited amount of junk food he ever got per month and more besides, Baron starts off small in his goal of readying himself for the the ultimate gamble.

* * *

The next year District Two comes close, only to lose once again and this time when they have both tributes in the final five. His classmates all shout and jeer in the cafeteria as Carol gets crushed by a tree, the same fate befalling Titanius several minutes later. They swear viciously as the sleepy, useless girl from Seven goes home a Victor, but Baron alone remains completely silent.

Complaining never does anybody any good, not when that time can be used for learning. From his seat at the edge of the cafeteria Baron makes dozens of notes on all the factors that led to the deaths of Titanius, Carol and all of the other tributes in this second year. He stays up late constantly, forcing himself to memorise all of the notes he made until he can practically recite them in his sleep.

Now aged sixteen Baron has two years left to volunteer. His mother remains alive, but the doctor estimates she had three years left at the most, and that was assuming that things do not go wrong before then.

It all pushes the boy to train harder, his lanky form gradually becoming more toned and muscular as a result of all of this.

* * *

Baron is so focused on running laps and power lifting with his self-made barbells that he's almost late to watch the opening moments of the third Hunger Games the following year. A costly error to make, as missing mandatory viewing carries severe punishments unless the culprit is on their death bed, in a coma or in jail... or all three.

"Being late is paramount to treason," his father tells him, angry. "I'll have you for this later, boy."

Baron just nods, not having anything to say to the man calling himself his father. As Mrs Overwhill gradually becomes more distant to the world, so too do Baron and his father to each other.

The opening bloodbath in the tropical island is pure carnage, a grand total of ten tributes sprawled out lifelessly on the formally white, now deep crimson, sand that surrounds the Cornucopia. Howls of grief and pain echo as the family of the male tribute, Marshall, are heard breaking down all across the square of Two.

"If only somebody had volunteered for the kid," says a boy nearby Baron.

"Like anybody would actually do that," replies a girl beside the boy.

Baron keeps silent. They have no idea what is in store for the following year, but they'll see before they know it. While his mother gets a little weaker every day, he only gets stronger and stronger thanks to all of the working out that he is doing constantly. The extra rations from the restaurant he helps out at on the side further help him towards the physical point he needs to reach by his final reaping.

For the first time ever, Baron is able to block each and every single one of his father's punches that night and fight him off. The soldier man has to admit that he is impressed by this, wondering when his son started to grow from a whelp into a man.

"I have something to fight for now, father."

Mr Overwhill doesn't push it, a showing of some mild respect.

* * *

The night before the reaping Baron stays beside his mother all night long in the hospital. The doctors estimate she has a month left if something was not done very soon. Baron is an exceptional honour roll student and, given the seeming certainty of his mother's looming death, is granted freedom to stay for the night.

No words are spoken for hours, Baron's only action being to gently hold his mother's hand. He stays this way up until sunrise when his father comes in, barking at him to get back to the house and ready himself for his final reaping.

Baron has no choice but to leave, but makes sure to whisper one thing to his frail mother before he leaves the room.

"Don't worry, I'm gonna save you. I guarantee it, mom."

* * *

The ladies have been reaped first, the result of this being a stout and bitter looking young woman named Concordia standing on the stage. The escort soon reaches into the boy's reaping bowl, taking their sweet time to draw out the suspense.

Baron, dressed in his finest suit, takes a deep breath.

"Loki Camelot!"

A boney, freckled boy makes his way out from the fourteen year olds section, walking towards the stage with all the life and energy of a corpse.

"I volunteer as tribute!"

The entire square of District Two freezes into a stunned silence. Neither children nor adults nor even Peacekeepers find themselves able to say anything. The Escort is similarly dumbstruck, shutting up for a record breaking forty seconds.

Baron pays the silence no mind, instead marching his way up towards the stage he's been destined for since he was fifteen. He pats Loki on the shoulder as he passes him, offering a brief friendly nod.

"I'll take it from here," is all Baron says.

Baron mounts the stage just in time for the escort to snap out of her stupor, looking incredibly dazed as she asks for the name of the brave young man in front of her.

"Baron Overwhill," Baron says, putting on his most confident smile. "The Victor of the Fourth Hunger Games."

* * *

In the Judgement Building the screams of Mr Overwhill echo across the walls for the entire hour that visitors are allowed. He takes back any respect he'd admitted, he shouts at his son for his idiocy, he rants about Baron's physical short comings, he gets breathless as he lists all of the ways he could be killed. After the most vicious rant he has ever sent his son's way the soldier man finally asks him what the hell he thinks he is doing, sending a punch towards his boy.

The young man catches the punch with ease.

"Keeping my mother, and your wife, alive. I've trained for this for years right under your nose," Baron says, coolly. "Put the kettle on, I'll be wanting a nice mug of tea when I'm back, _Sir_."

* * *

Being the first ever Volunteer in history makes Baron practically the face of the Fourth Hunger Games from the instant the reapings are all finished. Even the siblings from Three, the convicted arsonist from Six and the Mayor's son in Eight do not get the same amount of coverage as the first Volunteer. Even President Orion is enraptured by this mysterious young man.

The Capitol watches with jaws dropped during the parade, staring at the ripped form of the strong young man in a gladiator themed costume.

The Gamemakers constantly stare during the two days of training as he silently goes about his business, going over the sword training station and brushing up on some wilderness survival.

The entire Nation gazes at their screens as Mortimer asks him a few questions on the hovercraft ride over to the arena, the site of the looming murder game.

"I feel confident."

"My plan is to win the Hunger Games and get my mother the treatment she needs."

"It's true, I like playing guitar. I'll give you a solo once I win."

Nobody sees him as he sits in the toilet cubical of his launch room, getting out tears of anxiety and remorse pre-emptively.

* * *

Baron covers his eyes with his arm as a blinding light greets him upon being launched into the arena. It's not even ten seconds before a sweat trickles down his face, one from heat rather than fear. The arena this year turned out to be a desert, quite a departure from the three arenas prior and by the looks of things heat was going to be a major killer.

The numerous water bottles placed around the Cornucopia and marked with eye catching red labels only confirm this to Baron.

With nothing in sight besides the almost endless dunes, the cacti scattered sparsely across the scorching arena and the Cornucopia itself several dozen yards before him Baron readies himself to make a desperate charge to the golden horn.

He's the first one there by a solid ten seconds.

He's the first one to make a kill fifteen seconds later when he skewers the girl from Twelve who had only wanted a bottle of water to drink.

He's the first tribute in history to kill two others with the same swing of his weapon, slashing the pair from Nine across across their chests and leaving them to their fate of bleeding out at the same time.

He's the last one at the Cornucopia when the dust finally settles.

He's the last one to say a word once the cannons finish firing.

He's the fifth tribute to let the tears flow since the Games started.

For a while he moves to a nearby dune, sitting patiently as the hovercraft descends to take the fourteen corpses – five of them killed by him and his blood-soaked sword – out of the arena and off to the caskets.

"Nine to go," Baron says as he enters the Cornucopia, intending on taking a rest after the vicious bloodbath.

The nasty shade of red in the sand makes it hard to drift off to a brief sleep, but the interior of the golden horn makes it easy to hide his tears.

* * *

Baron knows he is the Capitol favourite of the year, but he isn't the only tribute who makes an impression. The siblings from Three capture some hearts while the boy from Six is sure to cause problems with his fire starting. Meanwhile the Mayor's son from Eight is a professional suck-up, easily gaining a fanbase. Not just that but the bombshell from One certainly knows how to use sex appeal to her advantage, easily stunning the teenaged boys and girls of the Capitol.

Baron can only sigh, knowing it's just his luck that all five of them are among the survivors of the first day and will surely be an issue to track down. The sandstorm that moves around periodically completely wipes out the footprints in the sand, giving Baron more work to do.

While Sponsors are still an idea existing only within the minds of a few Gamemakers, it is something of an unspoken rule that tributes who are liked by the Capitol tend to get treated somewhat better in the arena and receive less traps sent after them. It's for this reason that the small popularity contest had begun in the training centre and why Baron is never particularly bothered by the sandstorm.

It is, however, exactly why the forgettable girl from Eight finds herself suddenly overcome by the sandstorm later that same day, eventually stumbling blindly off of one of the few cliffs in the arena and breaking a leg. She survives the fall, but lays helpless.

It's a close thing, but she's not shown in the sky that night in the desert. However, both the kids from Four, both from Five, the crippled girl from Six, the rich boy from Seven, both from Nine, both from ten, both from eleven and both from Twelve are not so lucky.

* * *

Baron ends up forcing himself to keep going through the night and start sleeping through the day, figuring that he can get more work done when moving around in the chilly nights where his opponents are most likely asleep and not moving around the five square mile arena.

He's entirely correct on this assumption, managing to find the boy from One – a sort of self-claimed stage magician – at four in the morning. The boy manages to get away, but Baron knows exactly where he had cut him and moves on to the next target, not bothering to chase down a dying opponent.

The cannon fires right on cue. Also right on cue Baron pukes, guilt ridden.

* * *

While Baron is statistically the strongest tribute of the Fourth Annual Hunger Games he's by no means the only one who is able to fight. The Mayor's son from Eight discovered he had a natural talent for throwing knives back in the training centre, and it serves him particularly well when he locates Baron's own District Partner.

The fight is as brutal as it is quick. Screams, snarls, blood on the sand and then silence, besides the boy from Eight panting from the effort of throwing three knives in to the gut of the quarry miner girl. It's much to his relief when he finds five water bottles in her bag

Baron's unease increases that night when he sees Concordia's face in the sky, knowing that the games are in no way as good as won despite his strength.

In his private opinion, he thinks only a fool would assume to have the Hunger Games in the bag.

* * *

Days pass, the girl from Eight dying of dehydration and the girl from Seven being slain by Elegance from One. By the start of the seventh day of the Games, six tributes are still alive. Elegance, Baron, siblings Chip and Cookie from Three, arsonist Fumer from Six and increasingly confident Parka from Eight.

All of them feel the same agony of thirst once the Gamemakers put up the temperature just a little bit higher. It becomes a battle both of combat and of willpower to resist the urge to drink all the water they have. The first to run out of water was practically certain to be the first to die.

By sundown the six become five when Fumer gives in to his pyromania and sets the Cornucopia ablaze, the heat of the fire combined with the desert's already terrible heat making him pass out where he stands. He collapses backwards into his own inferno, the flames taking both his life and all the water that had been left in the golden horn.

Like any sport, for however much the Hunger Games counted as one, the 'players' had their own fans. Many of the Capitol citizens demanded to be able to send water into the arena for their favourites to escape death. Sponsors were not yet in place, meaning the tributes were all on their own up until just one remained, much to the annoyance of the spoiled Capitol audience. Notes were made for the next year.

* * *

The Games pass as a slow blur over the next two days, almost like heatstroke itself. The tributes are tired, pained and horribly thirsty. The water is running out and soon not a drop will remain for any of them. It's just past three in the afternoon when Cookie and Chip collapse hand in hand, side by side, unable to go another step.

It's an hour longer when Parka, weak from thirst as well, stumbles by and kills them both. Neither sibling feels a thing, passing peacefully.

The same cannot be said when Baron finds Elegance a little past midnight. He's exhausted, but she's barely able to walk and falls to his sword much like the six tributes he has already slain beforehand.

He loses an eye, but it's better than Elegance losing her life.

Baron is far too out of it to even realise the cannon has fired and that he's one of the last two standing.

He's too light headed to feel disgust at himself.

* * *

They meet upon a dune as the sun rises the next morning. It's both the least dramatic and most suspenseful finale of the Hunger Games thus far. Neither tribute is able to properly fight or rasp out more than a few tired words, but the fight begins and ends promptly.

Parka tosses throwing knives, unable to do more than send them two or three feet due to his thirst.

Baron lands a nasty slash on Parka with the last of his energy. A second later he collapses from heatstroke right as Parka slumps over, bleeding into the sand.

It's a sort of battle of attrition as the final two boys lay on the ground, a question of who will pass away first.

A cannon booms, and it's not for Baron. Five more minutes, though, and it might have been.

* * *

He hardly pays any mind to the post-Games events. To him, it's all a pointless time waster from the main event. That being, of course, his return home.

Cameras broadcast his grand return home across the nation where a cheering crowd and a proud, for once, father await him.

Baron ignores them all, instead making a sprint away from the train station and off towards the hospital as fast as his muscular legs can carry him. Cameras track his desperate journey, not a single thrilling second missed, and he arrives without issue.

One nod confirms to him that his mother is hanging in there.

It's not even a minute before the money is practically forced over and the proper, Capitol standard, of treatment can start. Not even an hour later the weary young man is assured that his mother will survive.

Finally, _**finally**_ , he lets himself cry it all out and this time he doesn't have to give a damn about who might be watching.

The cameras are watching, all quick to use this footage as propaganda for the wonderful things the Hunger Games can do. "If not for the glorious Games this young man would have lost his mother!"

* * *

Life is hard, always was and always will be.

The fact Baron used the Games to get exactly what he most wanted is spread around Two like wildfire, as is the way he worked out and got himself in shape for the arena ahead of time.

It's not long before his father comes up with the perfect solution to the issues Two has with the Games. One approval of the Mayor later and it heads off to the President's desk. Orion is willing to negotiate with one of the loyalists from the Dark Days and reads the small note.

 _'Let us train up our tributes and we'll put on a hell of a show for you like my boy did'._

After the added demand to have those in Two start training to join the Peacekeeper Army by triple the current number is agreed to, President Orion swiftly allows this. He was impressed with Baron's eight kill streak and wants to see more like it.

As the Career Academy starts to take off, hopeful and often-times greedy boys and girls start signing up to train themselves for the Games, whether as a precaution in case they are reaped or as part of a volunteering plan. Baron can only feel horrified by what he has started. His quest to save a life at such a cost in one arena has led to the loss of life in many other arenas.

It often breaks him down.

His father, meanwhile, has never been prouder of his whelp. Finally, he's adding to the family.

Only a hug from his mother, finally back to full health, can calm him down when the searing guilt gets too much for him to bare. Baron has no idea what he'd do without her.

Not a single evening passes where he doesn't light up eight expensive candles upon his porch – or in the mentor's room during Games season - one for each of the children he took from the world.

The sight of the trained killers, eventually dubbed 'Careers' who volunteer for fame, fortune or simply to hurt people makes him feel sick.

* * *

"So, this guy inspired Careers as we knew them?" Katniss asked, a grim look adorning her face.

"It seems like he started an accidental trend," Peeta replied, tense. "He couldn't have known what his choice would lead to."

"Guess it's just like how I never knew that Volunteering for Prim would lead to another rebellion," Katniss said, moving onwards alongside Peeta.

The next face on the sidewalk showed a smug looking boy with thick glasses adorning his face.

"Honorius," Peeta said. "He was the oldest Victor still alive before the rebellion got started."

"Is he still alive?" Katniss asked, looking down at the sidewalk.

"No clue," Peeta replied, shrugging lightly.

* * *

There we have it, the first Victor of many from District 2 and one who isn't exactly a Career either. Just an independent tough guy on a mission. A mission with some really dire consequences for the Outliers, eep. At least he managed to accomplish what he had set out to do in the first place, right? Then again, one must wonder if it was truly worth it... maybe?

* * *

 **Stats**

 **District 1:** N/A

 **District 2:** Baron Overwhill (4th Games)

 **District 3:** N/A

 **District 4:** Museida Selkirk (3rd Games)

 **District 5:** N/A

 **District 6:** N/A

 **District 7:** Pliny Aransio (2nd Games)

 **District 8:** N/A

 **District 9:** Mizar Aldjoy (1st Games)

 **District 10:** N/A

 **District 11:** N/A

 **District 12:** N/A


	6. Honorius Perthshire

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Hunger Games. They belong to Suzanne Collins.

 **Note:** A very familiar face this time! Well, familiar if you've read Bloodline Betrayal that is. Ever wanted a closer look into the mind of the wise old man who stepped up as a mentor, and grandfather figure, to Gadget decades in the future in one possible timeline? Well, now you can! All the while, Panem continues to change and the Careers start to pop up...

* * *

"I'm sure they mentioned the fifth Games in class before," Katniss said, thinking back to her days in school. "I didn't pay much attention, but this was the first time Careers appeared wasn't it?"

"That's right," Peeta said, flinching at the thought of the trained murderers of Games passed by. "First time sponsors and mutts were there as well."

"Oh fuck," Katniss muttered, huddling herself. "How do you think Honorius survived that kind of horrific year?"

"I guess... he got lucky, just like all Victors have one way or the other," Peeta said, softly.

* * *

 **5th Annual Hunger Games**

 **Name:** Honorius Perthshire

 **Gender:** Male

 **District:** 3

 **Age:** 15

 **Kills:** 3

* * *

 _Excerpts from the journal of Honorius Cable Perthshire, relating to his experiences before, during and after his Hunger Games. Written in the time between the fourth and sixth Hunger Games. Located four years after the Second Rebellion in a locked chest in the old Victor's basement._

 _Highly classified._

* * *

 **May 30th**

Given this journal by Dad as a birthday gift. Fifteen now. Hoping this is my finest year so far.

Got another A in class (Advanced Coding) like there was any doubt. Calling it advanced is a total farce. Frankly, while life in Three has many challenges school isn't one of them. Just listen and work, that's all you have to do. The other students aren't particularly fond of me, but do I care? Not at all. I'm set for one of the best possible career paths once I finish up at school, and right now I'll be graduated three years early. They'll be stuck working in stations beneath me and then we'll see how arrogant I really am. It's not arrogance if it's a fact; the statistics prove I'm at the top of each class.

Dad and mom are wary since the Reaping is approaching fast. July 1st will come too soon, they say. I'm not worried. My name is in four times and hundreds of kids have their names in more times. Might as well keep on with my day, since worrying changes nothing anyway. Tried to tell that to my sisters, but Merria and Kirky didn't seem comforted. Maybe as it's their first year?

Will write more when anything of note happens. Probably nothing for a while, since life in Three is dull. I wish I had more excitement, something that actually posed my mind a challenge.

* * *

 **June 14th**

Passed my exams with even more ease than I expected. I guess Panem tests are just not made to be taken by the smartest of students. Apparently I've gotten the best recorded results in all of Three since the Dark Days ended. Should all but ensure my future is going to be bright and one to envy.

Got given a black eye by Gizmo. He's just jealous I got excellent results and he spent all his time goofing off. Stupid ape-boy. At least a bag of ice can help my eye, but nothing can help his future.

Games are getting closer and I'm still not worried. Whispers are going around that more people might Volunteer after what Baron did, possibly trained up too. If they want to be that stupid, by all means let them. It's natural selection at work. They can fight to the death while I start applying to jobs.

* * *

 **June 30th**

Reaping is tomorrow. Still not worried at all. Sisters are inconsolable, so I'm spending the night out of the house and down at the school. A graduation party of one. Mom and dad say that I'm being recklessly confident, but I just pointed them to the statistics. I'm all set for life, no evidence to the contrary.

Can't help but smile despite the sad fact two kids from school are probably gonna die in the arena. Just got confirmation that I have a spot on the Alpha Inventing Team. For a freshly graduated student, that's amazing. Just as planned.

* * *

 **July 1st**

Just got reaped and am sitting in the Judgement Building. I can't stop sneering around the room, contemptuous. How dare they?! I had everything planned out, everything set up just fine for my future and then the Escort ruins it all. I'm not even crying like my District Partner is (eighteen year old from the tenants, Amp I think her name was? Didn't pay attention), I'm too busy feeling furious about this.

Mom, dad and my sisters were crying and weeping like I was already dead. I told them not to worry because I'll be coming home soon. I have the brainpower to pull it off. I watched the first four of these sick Games, I think I know what I've got to do to win.

In short, I just have to not be stupid.

* * *

 **July 2nd**

I got dressed up like a light bulb for the parade. Humiliating, not to mention the prep team got all their lightbulb facts wrong. I've never had to dish out so many corrections before. I don't think they see me as a person, but that's fine. Not like I see them as people either. Normal people do not enjoy the deaths of others.

Got a chance to look at the other tributes. Most of them seem pretty weak, which helps me. A few of them – boys from One, Two, Five and Eleven – look pretty strong so I plan to just avoid them. Not like their muscles will help them in the end anyway. Boy from Two, Gauntlet, seems even more confident than I am. He volunteered. Ruby from One did too.

Saw the Victors watching the parade from their own booth. Mizar looked nervous, Pliny was sleeping, Museida seemed tough and Baron... the guy looks pretty broken. Maybe he just doesn't like the tributes he has to Mentor? Would be nice if Three had a Mentor, but until one of us – me, of course – wins we're on our own, unless the Peacekeeper watching us like a hawk counts as a Mentor.

* * *

 **July 3rd**

First day of training went well. Easy for me to remember facts about edible plants, first aid and finding water. Not so easy to swing a sword, though. Ended up quitting and searching for a weapon I could use. Felt humiliating to fail at so many of them before I start getting somewhere with using axes.

It's clear Gauntlet is the one to beat. He uses a sword easily and he keeps leering at some of the younger tributes who can't really do much. I'm being left alone, maybe because I'm showing some skill with an axe? Girl from Nine broke her arm on the climbing wall shortly after lunch. One less threat to deal with, I guess.

Tried to ask Amp if she wants to work together for a day or two in the arena – I figure she'd live longer that way and there's no rule against alliances – but she's still crying. She's starting to quieten down as I write this, in my room, but it seems like she's not going to last long. Guess I'll be going it alone.

Just heard Amp leaving. She trying to run for it? Yeah, good luck with that...

* * *

 **July 4th**

Amp is dead.

She jumped off of the top of the building, choosing to die here than in the arena. Part of me is impressed at the middle finger she gave the Capitol. The other part of me is worried for what is going to happen now. Will they drag another tribute from Three to join me? Am I gonna be seen as an accomplice? I can't stop shaking today. She was a real person and now she's just... dead.

Continuing a few hours later. Had to calm down and then go to training. Almost all of the tributes are quiet and unnerved over Amp's suicide. One or two of them seem to be considering the same idea. One of the guard's let slip that Orion is furious over what happened. Says all of us are going to be cuffed to our beds tonight.

Seems like an alliance has formed. Gauntlet recruited the strong boys from One, Five and Eleven – Ruby, Abe and Bean – and they seem to know what they're doing. Fuck... I'm starting to feel worried. Is this was fear is like? Is this what it's like to not feel certain of success? I don't like it.

Continuing before curfew; won't be able to write once I am cuffed to the bed. It starts tomorrow. I can't sleep. No more confidence, only fear. I was such a damn fool to be so cocky and smug. It's not even started yet and I can't get rid of the tears in my eyes.

Trying to force myself to block it out and get back to assuming the best. No success so far.

* * *

 _From this point on, the classified papers have marks of blood upon them. DNA tests later confirmed that it was blood from Honorius himself as well as Abe and Bean at certain points._

* * *

 **Day 1**

The arena isn't a desert this year, thank goodness. Not my preferred terrain of a city either, assuming that's even something they'd ever do. We got launched into a wide meadow, sort of like the first arena but this one is under the night sky and has more trees. Stars and a bright moon that hasn't moved since this thing started. Guess I'll have to fumble my way through the dark. Quite a few strange plants growing around, some of which I know are poisonous.

Amp's corpse got put back together and was launched with the rest of us. I think they're going to dress it up as her having a heart attack on the way up. They'd have to be stupid to think anybody will believe that crap. Besides her, ten died at the Cornucopia. Can't remember who, will make a further note here when the anthem happens. _ADDITIONAL:_ The dead are the girl from Two, Amp, boy from Four, girl from Five, girl from Seven, both from Eight, girl from Nine, boy from Ten and both from Twelve.

Grabbed an axe, a sleeping bag and a backpack full of food.

Killed Abe. He tried to kill me first, stabbed me in the arm. Took his head halfway off with my axe. Didn't want to, didn't enjoy it.

Moon looks nice.

* * *

 **Day 2**

Still no daylight. No idea what time it is now on the world outside, but probably less miserable than this meadow. Arm hurts like hell.

Nothing much going on today besides the time I caught a glimpse of the boy from Nine. He didn't see me and I didn't try starting anything.

* * *

 **Day 3**

Arm still hurts. Had been planning to raid the Cornucopia, but the girl from Ten got there first. I was going to just let her get her stuff and move in for my own haul once she left, but Gauntlet had been standing guard. No idea where Bean and Ruby were.

He killed her and really drew it out. I saw the whole thing, shivering in a bush, until he finally let her die after an hour. Seemed like the boy enjoyed it, too.

A parachute was sent in – maybe it's that Sponsoring thing I was briefly told about in the launch room? - and gave him twelve small pies. One for every year old that poor girl was. I got out fast after that.

* * *

 **Day 4**

Saw a boy – from Six, maybe? - burn his throat out after eating a poisonous fruit. Grabbed his stuff and ran off. He had bandages and a wound sealer, so at least my arm feels halfway close to decent again.

More cannons and screams throughout the day. They never seem to be far away. I've been sick from the fear about five times already.

Continuing two minutes later. It's six times now.

* * *

 **Day 5**

Gauntlet murdered two more tributes. Can't think who, can only remember the screams. He's easy to track, since he always carries a flaming torch around with him. Bean and Ruby are with him at all times now. They're starting to become like Gauntlet, joining in with his mocking and shouting.

* * *

 **Day 6**

Took a chance and raided the Cornucopia. Now have batteries, a tarp and medicine. Not sure what to do with them just yet, but I'm still as smart as I was before this nightmare began. I'll think of something great that'll get the sponsors drooling. I'll need them on my side to beat Gauntlet.

Trashed the Cornucopia as best as I could. Hoping it weakens Gauntlet.

No cannons, but plenty of screams. I feel so alone in this place.

I feel scared.

* * *

 **Day 7**

The Gamemakers turned off the moon and made it nearly impossible to see anything more than a foot in front of me. Ended up curled up on the ground under my tarp, waiting for the moon to come back. Heard a lot of screeches I am sure were not human, and more cannons fired. Maybe three? I don't know anymore.

Gauntlet set down flaming torches at the Cornucopia. I plan to walk at least three miles in the opposite direction. Maybe he'd not find me?

* * *

 _At this point Honorius' handwriting becomes a lot less refined and more of an untidy scrawl. It'd take until he reached the age of twenty two for him to once again be able to write without his hands shaking. Experts say the combination of the darkness, the loneliness and what he heard Gauntlet doing made him start to lose himself. His second kill didn't help matters. Only a sponsor kept him going._

* * *

 **Day 8**

Bean tried to kill me, so I fought him. I only wanted to survive, that was all it was. He stabbed me in the arm twice so I axed him in the shoulder and shoved batteries down his throat. Took a while until his twitching stopped.

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. This must be a punishment for my arrogance. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.

* * *

 **Day 9**

Got a sponsor. They sent me a syringe of something called 'morphling'. Calmed me down enough to think properly again. I've got no idea when it might wear off and the horrible feelings are gonna come back. Been trying to get work done until then, stealing food and water from the Cornucopia. Gauntlet wasn't home.

I heard Ruby and Gauntlet somewhere in the darkness an hour later, arguing. I heard Ruby's screams for mercy not long after. His cannon was what I heard next.

* * *

 **Day 10**

I did the math. It's just Gauntlet and myself left. He's hunting for me, calling for me, laughing at me.

Hiding in a tree, trying not to listen to his distant calls and the screeching from the bats flying around.

Eventually saw a camera beside me. Told my family I was sorry for being arrogant. Told Gizmo I was sorry for calling him stupid.

* * *

 **Day 11**

He's seen me.

* * *

 _Honorius won the final battle, getting lucky when the Bat Muttations tore into Gauntlet first due to the better fed boy being the better tasting target. The sugar in his blood from the fancy cookies he had been sponsored as well as the meat he had in his pockets is generally accepted to have led towards his doom._

 _The remaining entries are from several months after Honorius left the arena, bloodied and afraid._

* * *

 **October 26th**

Been months since I won but I can't stop feeling afraid. Work helps distract me for a while. They say I'm one of the best recruits they have ever had, but the praise doesn't make me feel good like it used to. Nothing job related really matters at this point. What does a job matter when you've seen what I have seen?

I keep freaking out every time I see a bat flutter by at night. It's impossible to forget seeing a trained boy be reduced to a sobbing wreck when bats eat him one chunk at a time for a smaller boy to finish him with an axe.

I should feel proud for surviving. I've done something few others have ever done, but no... not longer. I can't be arrogant. Not when next year's tributes will need me to save them from ending up how Gauntlet, Ruby, Bean and all the rest did. I guess my sisters got what they wanted at least, in a sense. I've been humbled.

* * *

 **January 8th**

On my Victory Tour and met Baron in District Two today. We talked.

I think we're gonna be good friends.

* * *

"Wanna move on?" Peeta asked, gently.

Katniss nodded, staring distantly into space.

"Yeah," Katniss said. "Let's keep it moving. The fifth games happened, that's all there is to say."

The couple continued their journey down the sidewalk, soon stopping at the face of the sixth Victor. Neither of them said a word, instead keeping a respectful silence for the shaggy haired boy imprinted upon the concrete.

Duke Saint-Rose, the first Victor of District Twelve.

* * *

Quite a bit different than the wise grandfather figure we know him as from Bloodline Betrayal, am I right? You know what they say, immaturity precedes wisdom and the arrogant youth got one brutal humbling indeed. And now, D2 Careers, Sponsors and Mutts are here! That, and Amp's suicide being the reason why the tribute building has the forcefield at the roof to stop people from jumping.

* * *

 **Stats**

 **District 1:** N/A

 **District 2:** Baron Overwhill (4th Games)

 **District 3:** Honorius Perthshire (5th Games)

 **District 4:** Museida Selkirk (3rd Games)

 **District 5:** N/A

 **District 6:** N/A

 **District 7:** Pliny Aransio (2nd Games)

 **District 8:** N/A

 **District 9:** Mizar Aldjoy (1st Games)

 **District 10:** N/A

 **District 11:** N/A

 **District 12:** N/A


	7. Duke Saint-Rose

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Hunger Games. They belong to Suzanne Collins.

 **Note:** It was always a detail that caught my eye in the books, the fact District Twelve had a Victor before Haymitch... one that we never hear about again nor know any detail of whatsoever. All that can really be taken away is that, as they are dead by the start of the series, they had to have been one of the first few Victors. Thus, here's Duke to fill in the blanks for us! The world of Panem continues to take shape... and what a grisly shape it is.

* * *

"It really is a shame what happened to him," Peeta said after a while, sighing.

"The fact he was in the arena at all, or the mugging after the forty eighth..." Katniss trailed off, a faraway look within her eyes.

"I guess both," Peeta said a few moments later. "Makes you wonder if Twelve would have done any better after the second Quell had there been two mentors instead of just one."

"Who even knows?" Katniss replied. "It's a wonder our District had any Victors to begin with."

"Yeah... can't disagree," Peeta said, nodding. "Thank goodness there won't ever be any Victors, or Tributes, ever again."

* * *

 **6th Annual Hunger Games**

 **Name:** Duke Saint-Rose

 **Gender:** Male

 **District:** 12

 **Age:** 17

 **Kills:** 4

* * *

 **Mizar** sees him as another poor kid deserving pity.

Five years after his own Victory had given Mizar a certain sort of resignation mixed with determination. He'd do his best to bring one home, Lord knows he'd fight tooth and nail to protect somebody innocent from dying in the arena like those poor kids who died in that damn meadow. But eight dead children since his own arena, nine with poor Petra added to the mix, made him wonder if he was getting any closer to achieving what he so desperately wanted.

Not to mention that the families of the dead had a habit of holding their only Mentor responsible for the failure to save their children. The first ever Victor did not even blame them, fully understanding their grief in a way most others wouldn't. Maybe this would be the year he could start burning away some of the guilt that froze around his soul. He had to try.

He first saw Duke while watching the reaping recaps on the tribute train with this year's poor pair – a young boy named Brewer and a gangly near-adult named Cornflower – and crossing his fingers in hopes that none of them would be too dangerous.

While the tough quarry miners from Two who volunteered with little hesitation were sure to be a problem, and the boy from One with the tattoos - a small time crook wanting to hit it big time - looked particularly intimidating, the same wasn't true for the boy from the Mining District.

In fact, the blond pale faced boy shivered on the stage like a deer caught right in the headlights.

The son of a pair of tailors, Duke was the first of the merchant kids to be reaped from District Twelve since Colton and Rose back in Mizar's own games. Decently well fed and well off, at least by the standards of his particularly poor home, his quiet life as a tailor meant he'd never had to exert himself like the vast majority of his District. Background checks that were run on him painted a picture of an indoorsy boy who acted a lot more confident than he really was, often way in over his head.

"How do you feel about this honour?" the Escort asked him, her artificial whiskers twitching.

Mizar looked on at the same time as all the tributes, and his fellow Mentors, in the other trains en-route to the Capitol. They all wondered, as one, what the boy's first words on live television would be.

"Startled, I guess," Duke said, folded his arms as he tried to keep himself from shaking. "Very startled."

He gave polite, short answers to the rest of his Escort's fast, snappy questions before the reaping finally concluded, Duke being herded into the Judgement Building alongside a Seam girl by the name of Root.

"Startled tributes don't win the Games," the Escort from Nine tuts. "Oh, except you Mr Aldjoy."

Mizar restrains himself from scolding the Escort, knowing that her words apply to the two tributes seated either side of him. Instead, he begins to go over tactics with the tributes entrusted to his care. As usual, finding water is where things start.

All the tributes from all of the Districts stick out on the young man's mind like they always do. That night his mind settles on the young man from Twelve, the last tribute to have been picked for the looming death match.

Statistically, Twelve has done the worst overall in the five previous Hunger Games with their tributes never once doing well. He mutters a prayer, hoping the deaths of Duke and Root won't be drawn out.

He doesn't know it, but Duke is awake throughout the night doing push-ups and raiding the fridge of the train he is stuck on in hopes of gaining weight before the arena arrives.

* * *

 **Pliny** thinks he is a polite young man who got dealt a bad hand.

The sole Victor from Seven, diagnosed as being severely narcoleptic, really didn't like her job.

Being seen as the weakest Victor, and thus the weakest Mentor, for having literally slept through the Hunger Games did not make her tributes feel hopeful when they met Pliny. With their biggest hope being a small woman that hardly did anything in her own Hunger Games and never had to suffer much, if any, trauma... many 'Sevens' simply gave up on the train, thinking there was nothing she could do for them.

Such was the case this year, though this time had the distinction of being the first year where her tributes took preemptive action. Acorn and Bushel had tried to jump to their deaths off of the roof only to get thrown back onto solid ground by the forcefield that got installed after what Amp had done the year prior.

That was how Pliny found herself seated alone on the roof of the tribute building later that night, unable to sleep for once, while her tributes were cuffed down to their beds to prevent a second suicide attempt. She sighed, sipping from a mug of hot cocoa.

"Am I really that awful of a Mentor?" she asked herself.

"I don't think so. I mean, I wouldn't know, but I'd assume you try your best?" said a voice.

Pliny yelped, alarm racing through her small frame. A few seconds passed fretfully before she realised one of the tributes from Twelve was speaking to her.

"Oh, sorry, thought you were talking to me," the boy said.

Pliny gives the boy – no, Duke, that was his name – a tired smile.

"It's fine. I didn't realise I wasn't alone," Pliny said, "Are you allowed up here?"

"Are you?" Duke replied.

"I'm a Victor, I have some allowance," Pliny said, letting out a soft yawn. "You're... well..."

"A tribute," Duke said, sighing as he sat beside Pliny. "One thing differs me from the others, though."

"What's that?" Pliny asked, curious in spite of her own gloom.

"I'm not going to die," Duke said, his eyes narrowed. "I'm not. I'm not. ...So, uh, where are your tributes?"

"Acorn and Bushel tried to kill themselves by jumping off the roof. They're gonna be chained to their beds until the morning," Pliny said. She turned away, a tear trickling down her cheek. "They've got that little faith in me."

Duke was silent for a while, tapping a hand lightly against his knocking knees. He eventually moved his hand over to Pliny's shoulder.

"At least they have a mentor, one who cares about them too," Duke said, looking up at the moon. "Root and I have to make do with a firm Peacekeeper who, uh... well, he wants us dead, actually?"

"Oh..." Pliny trailed off, wincing.

"Point is... you're not a bad mentor. One of yours placed second. That's not bad," Duke said, quietly. "I mean, not great but... sorry."

"No, no, it's fine," Pliny said, weakly smiling. "I appreciate the fact you're here, talking to me, even if we're on... well... different sides."

"Are we?" Duke asked. "Capitol against District, tribute against tribute, Merchant against Seam, I've had enough of sides and fights."

"...Same," Pliny agreed. "You sound confident. Aren't you scared?"

"Terrified," Duke said, looking out at the city. "But I'm still going win. Because that's the only option I'm willing to consider."

"Think your training will be enough?" Pliny asked.

"It'll have to be," Duke said, shrugging. "Just gotta pick up new skills wherever I can, you know?"

The pair spoke for a lot of the night, sharing stories and feelings about pretty much anything that came to their minds. With the high likelihood of Duke's death in the next few days, neither Mentor nor Tribute saw much of a reason to hold anything back.

By the time Duke left to get a few hours of sleep before training resumed Pliny felt a little better than she had before. She had to admit that, if her own tributes ended up dead like all those before, then she wanted the nice, determined boy from Twelve to be the last one standing.

She doesn't know it, but Duke offers the pair from Seven an alliance the next morning and tells them to give Pliny a chance to help them. The second Victor is stunned when the pair hang on her every word that night.

She's further stunned when, in his one minute interview on the flight to the arena, Duke says she is his favourite of the first five Victors.

* * *

 **Museida** admits that he is tougher than he'd initially assumed.

This year the Tributes are launched into a rocky canyon about as orange as a lovely garnet. The canyon complex towers above the diminutive Tributes and the vultures are circling above before the countdown even starts. It's going to be another arena with very harsh conditions, especially as water is scarce in the canyon aside from what the Cornucopia offers.

The five Victors sit in a private booth, the hardest part of mentoring now only a minute away.

To his left Mizar is already biting his fingernails and Pliny is getting teary eyed. On his right Baron is pouring out a drink with a shake of his head and Honorius is muttering for his pair of tributes to play it smart and run.

Museida doesn't do anything except stare at the screen, watching the countdown tick towards zero.

It's carnage from the moment the gong rings. This year all of the tributes make a charge towards the Cornucopia, those lacking a Mentor making a desperate sprint for supplies and even those with a Mentor unwilling to risk their lives in the canyon with only their bare hands.

The exceptions are Fancy from One and Gamemaker favourites Odin and Berretta from Two. The volunteers, all sporting anywhere from a few months experience as a crook around One to a year at Mr Overwhill's Academy in Two, want to get on with eliminating the competition.

They do exactly that.

The three Careers, joined by Perfect from One – the girl was only allowed into the alliance due to Fancy feeling he owed her for all the times at school she did his math homework for him – have the upper hand from the start. Fancy guts a chubby boy from Five before he has time to scream, Odin smashes the girls from Eight and Eleven with a spiked sledgehammer, Berretta breaks Root's neck and all this is just in the first minute.

Perfect tries to get the drop on Acorn, only to be grabbed by the back of her shirt and hurled to the ground. The last thing she ever sees is Duke swinging his pickaxe down at her.

Half of the tributes are crumpled around the golden horn, their blood staining the rocky canyon ground, when the dust settles. Among the dead is Bushell, her having been unable to escape alongside Duke and Acorn when Odin threw a knife in her back.

The Outliers scatter. The Careers exchange hi-fives as they take over the Cornucopia. The families of the dead weep. It's a yearly tradition by now.

Mizar stares blankly ahead, his pair already dead. Pliny wipes away a tear, staring at the body of what was her female tribute. Honorius is just glad one of his pair, a boy with a love for chemistry, survived the opening battle. Museida does the same thing as Baron; focusing on the screen without fail, both of his kids still alive and potentially needing help at any moment at all.

Three days later and Honorius joins Mizar in defeat as his boy is attacked by vicious vultures, while Museida has to keep reminding himself Baron never intended for his tributes to end up like this when he has to watch Odin throw the once confident ladies man Tidewater off the canyon's highest point. He doesn't punch Baron, but it's a close thing.

He no longer pays any mind towards Duke, the tailor boy and his ally from Seven both free of injury so far and hiding in the shadows at the base of the canyon.

He doesn't know it, but Duke has read a lot of books back home and one of them happened to talk about canyons quite in depth. Duke recalls the knowledge with ease.

* * *

 **Baron** thinks that, though he's probably doomed regardless, Duke has it in him to be the last one left outside the Career alliance sweeping the arena.

For a boy who never really exerted himself before, he takes to the pickaxe in his hands like a fish to water, swinging it at any vulture or occasional snake that comes close to himself and Acorn. When Acorn eventually asks how a tailor knows how to fight so well Duke simply tells him it's all out of a refusal to die. Acorn doesn't press it after that.

The Capitol appreciates his nerve in spite of the hopeless odds and send him water, the fluids keeping himself and Acorn going. Regardless, the Careers remain better off.

When eight are left the Gamemakers turn up the heat and suddenly the shade doesn't help so much anymore. Caves close up, leaving all the tributes stuck on the sweltering canyon.

"Let's make our own cave," Duke suggests.

"With what?" Acorn asks, lost.

Duke simply nods to the pickaxe in his arms and tells Acorn to keep watch.

All viewers, whether they were District, Capitol and even Gamemaker watch in awe as Duke smashed away at a section of the canyon wall he deemed suitable, little by little causing rocks to fall away and a cave to be filed out. A few vultures are sent down and swiftly dispatched before the Gamemakers decide to let it play out, figuring it won't amount to anything and at least keeps the audience watching.

Duke is absolutely exhausted by the time he declares he is done, his shirt now discarded much to the delight of many Capitol women, but nonetheless leads Acorn into the shaded cave with the water they got sponsored mere minutes prior.

They manage to sleep in peace for the first time in ages while the Careers slaughter Sharka in a dry ditch two hours before sunrise. Baron doesn't even blame Museida for hitting him over. If that's the price he has to pay for his District taking pleasure in murder then so be it.

As heat and tensions rise, the Outlier allies remain in their cave away from the sun and danger, the days passing by slowly. They tell stories about their homes in that time as well. Acorn mentions he's got three possible fathers and has no idea which one to call his dad. Duke admits he never really got around to telling his parents the real reason why he never asked a girl to the school dance.

Seven becomes six over the next two days when Fancy, standing guard at the Cornucopia, manages to catch Clarence from Ten during a desperate would-be raid. While the ranch hand bleeds into the rocks the Outlier allies continue to hide, sleeping undisturbed.

Their reprieve is broken when the Gamemakers, feeling the alliance is getting a bit too friendly, send snakes after them. Duke does his best to fight them off and succeeds, but one bite is all it takes to doom Acorn as no antidote is coming.

Duke remains in the cave, alone and silent, for two more days. Baron can only watch, sighing, unable to feel anything but a resigned sort of depression over the grisly Games even when his District has both Tributes doing fine. It's only a matter of time before they find the remaining Outliers.

He doesn't know it, but Duke has nothing left to lose and is willing to eat the meat of bats that flutter into the cave and drink their blood in order to sustain himself when the sponsors finally stop coming. It's more than the Careers, out of food and hardly having any water left, have amongst their gear.

* * *

 **Honorius** has no idea how the tribute from Twelve can expect to win anymore.

By the seventeenth day, five days since Acorn's death and two days since the Careers tracked down the tiny girl from Five, it's just them and Duke left. The Games have become slow, boring even and the spoiled Capitolites demand action. They demand a fight, and want the tributes to do it to each other.

After all, the primitive Mutts only end up dead from Duke's pick axe or the Career's blades anyway.

Honorius expects the worst and is already wondering how he might be able to talk his way out of having to be in the same room as one of the Careers the next year. The outcome of the Games no longer effects him per-say, but he'd at least appreciate the company of Duke more than that of Fancy, Berreta and especially Odin.

"Congratulations Baron," he tells his favourite fellow Victor, pouring himself some juice. "I think Two has it on lock."

Baron only gives a light nod, still staring at the screen intently. Nothing is for sure yet, he knows this fact well.

Duke has almost no awareness of time passing around him, hardly even registering the fact it's four in the morning, when another first for the Hunger Games happens.

A Feast is called, one to be set upon a flat stretch of ground at the base of the massive canyon at sunrise. Food and water are promised to be there.

Life flickers in the eyes of the exhausted tailor boy. Despite feeling ever so empty he still manages to make his way, pickaxe in hand, to the area that Head Gamemaker Casperous spoke of. He sits and he waits.

Part of Honorius wonders if Duke has given up and is simply willing to let the Careers end the suffering. He knows the same feeling, having felt it badly in the final few days of his own dreadful Hunger Games.

Duke gulps down the water as soon as the table starts rising through a newly opened hole in the floor and munches the bread and meat as quickly as he can without making himself sick. He feels halfway decent again after a few minutes.

He's just finished ruining the food he doesn't need and pouring away the water he no longer craves when the Careers show up, weapons in hand and fury in their eyes.

Honorius expects another bloodbath, but nonetheless forces himself to watch.

A bloodbath happens.

He doesn't know it, but Duke had watched the three Careers in the training centre and noticed that, as much as they focused on weapons, not a single one of the trio had spent a single minute at one of the survival stations. With their advantage negated from thirst and hunger they all end up painfully struck to the hard ground by a pickaxe, bleeding badly.

* * *

 **Duke** is shaken, but alive and amazed at how much tougher he is than he believed to be possible.

Everything is a blur for him from the moment he wakes up after being giving the best medical treatment the Capitol can possibly offer. The realisation he won, the screaming fans, the ten minute interview with Mortimer after he's deemed fit to be in public, the after party and being crowned by the vile President Orion... it leaves the tailor boy's head spinning.

"I just wanted to go back home," he says in quiet, polite voice. "I just stuck by my plan, not dying, and did what I needed to do in order to keep to the plan."

It's like he's on autopilot for most of his remaining time in the Capitol, saying a few words here and there while going along with whatever is needed of him. He'd rather just speed the whole thing up as much as possible so he can get back home and back to work.

Those shirts won't make themselves, after all.

It's only after the party is over and home looms the following day that he starts to get into the party spirit, even if just barely.

Then again, the same can be said for Pliny.

The other Victors welcome Duke into their 'Victor Family' but Pliny stays behind and makes sure to thank Duke for working with Acorn for as long as he did.

"Oh, it was no trouble. Honestly, having a friend made all the difference," Duke said, pouring himself and Pliny a drink. "...I miss him."

"He was a good guy," Pliny agrees, quiet. "Maybe next year..."

She trails off, of course, knowing that next year she and Duke will have to Mentor their own Tributes through the arena. Tributes that may kill each other.

"...Next year, maybe we could get our tributes to ally?" Duke eventually suggests. "We got along that night on the roof. Maybe keep that going, yeah?"

Pliny smiles, willing to go for it. They don't talk much after that, but at least they don't feel quite so alone anymore.

* * *

 **President Orion** is completely indifferent to him.

He's only concerned with the massive influx of new Peacekeepers and the brilliant show put on by the Careers, fallen as they may be. He willingly allows District Two to keep training up their children into being savage killers and, having been impressed by Fancy and also Ruby the year prior, begins to consider allowing District One to do the same sooner than later.

Mr Overwhill receives funding and firm orders to expand the small academy in Two into something grander a week later.

* * *

"Think he died happy?" Katniss eventually said, letting out a soft breath. "I mean... he took a bullet that would've hit Pliny, right? That's some friendship."

"I don't think we'll ever know," Peeta said, gazing up at the sky. "But, he died as himself. No better way to die than that."

With one last respectful look down at Duke the couple moved on a few paces until they came to the next face on the ground, a tough looking girl gazing back up at them with her hair in one gigantic braid.

"Runa Peace," Katniss read. "She looks tough."

"No surprise. I mean, seven kills... that speaks for itself," Peeta added, lightly.

* * *

That was a fun chapter to write! Like I said, the mysterious first Victor of District Twelve has always been something of a fascination to me and one I wanted to some some justice. I'm hoping that Duke came off as a likeable, engaging addition to the growing Victor family. Gotta give the tailor boy credit, he got the job done no matter what. Lucky him to have an ally and be in a year with only three early Careers.

* * *

 **Stats**

 **District 1:** N/A

 **District 2:** Baron Overwhill (4th Games)

 **District 3:** Honorius Perthshire (5th Games)

 **District 4:** Museida Selkirk (3rd Games)

 **District 5:** N/A

 **District 6:** N/A

 **District 7:** Pliny Aransio (2nd Games)

 **District 8:** N/A

 **District 9:** Mizar Aldjoy (1st Games)

 **District 10:** N/A

 **District 11:** N/A

 **District 12:** Duke Saint-Rose (6th Games)


	8. Runa Peace

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Hunger Games. They belong to Suzanne Collins.

 **Note:** You know what's fun? World building and filling in the blanks of a vague background to something. I guess the fun factor is what makes this story so easy to write and quick to update. Before long the first decade of the Hunger Games will be completed, much sooner than I had initially assumed. I guess I'm obsessed lmao. And now, the seventh Games. Seven may be lucky for some, but it sure isn't for twenty three kids...

* * *

Katniss and Peeta looked at the tough face of Runa upon the sidewalk, unsure what to think as they stared down at the immortalised face of one of the second ever female Victor, and the first to actually put effort into winning.

"Think there would be strong Career girls volunteering every year if Runa hadn't won?" Katniss asked.

"I mean... maybe? Not like the deaths one year ever really stopped the Volunteers the next year," Peeta replied. "Though... did she Volunteer? We just assuming, or...?"

"I mean, it makes sense given where she was from," Katniss said, peering down at Runa's braid. "Hmm... guess one of the Careers had my look."

"She must have had very good taste in hairstyles then," Peeta remarked, softly chuckling as he gently traced a hand along Katniss' braid.

"Braids, the must-have style for a Victor," Katniss said, smirking for all of a half-second.

* * *

 **7th Annual Hunger Games**

 **Name:** Runa Peace

 **Gender:** Female

 **District:** 2

 **Age:** 18

 **Kills:** 7

* * *

 **10 Lessons Runa Learnt From Her Grandpa**

 **#1: Count your blessings**

District Two was generally seen as the Capitol favourite after the Dark Days, a view that only became more and more set in stone – no pun intended, of course – as the decades went by. It was, for one thing, the District with the most freedom and privilege, as well as being the first one that was put back into its proper state after the Dark Days.

Of course, that wasn't until the time of the Twelfth Annual Hunger Games. Before then there were was a fair chunk of desecrated areas in the Masonry District that were in a particularly poor state of living. Perhaps not to the same state as the darkest slums of Six or the most filthy areas of Twelve, but certainly not a place a sane person would live if given the choice.

Runa, the youngest of four sisters and the only one who happened to not end up on the wrong side of a warhead nine years prior, did not have any such choice.

Life in the more southern parts of the District, some bomb craters still smoking at this point of history, was hard. Fights for food were competitive and the weak did not last long, unless they made themselves appear useful towards the strong. Runa was one of the strong and fought like a badger is it meant an extra two or three slices of bread.

It wasn't much of a life, but it was at least four steps up from death. She and her Grandpa, a wise old man who had seen endless conflict in his long life since before Panem was truly a nation, lived in Town 395, one of the overall most poor and desperate. They had a shack, a few blankets, water from a well and each other.

Those were Runa's only blessings and she'd kill if it meant keeping them in her grasp. The world wasn't going to get the last laugh damn it. Not that Runa had ever killed a person at this point, but she sure had broken a few arms of boys who tried to take her bread or grab her in ways she didn't approve of.

The idea of turning one's nose up at a meal or whining over not getting the birthday gift that you wanted was a foreign concept to Runa. Actually existing in the first place and receiving anything at all was a gift, so shut the fuck up.

It was shortly after her final reaping where she really saw just how right all along she was that life is a gift. She also saw that her Grandpa had been entirely correct as well when he told her to count the few blessings she had. Who knew that hearing a cannon fire while you lay starving was a blessing?

* * *

 **#2: Hard Work Is Rewarded**

Whether it was payment, being owed a favour, getting a slice of bread or even just gaining a skill or some muscle mass the fact remained, according to Grandpa Peace, that hard work would be followed by a reward. So that's what Runa did, she worked hard.

District Two wasn't the sort of place to discriminate on Gender beyond a 'individuals being scum' sort of basis. If somebody was strong enough, whoever they were, they were able to work in the quarries. Runa stood at 5'11 when she was thirteen and six foot five by the time she was eighteen, made of muscle. Quarry work was never the slightest issue for her and she would carry rocks back and forth for hours to make a couple Caps. Anything to avoid starvation.

Other workers got laid off, either from being too weak, being careless and hurting themselves or simply not by keeping up with the often ridiculous quota they were threatened to reach. Runa wasn't among then, the bulky girl just going back and forth, working hard for as long as she had to. Whatever kept bread on the table.

It wasn't so much a reward as just being able to keep the job she had to begin with, but seeing the unemployed starve during the winter had Runa grateful nonethless for her Grandpa's advice.

After Baron won the Hunger Games and the District began to see that hard work would lead to winning the Games, and the chance of never having to go hungry ever again, suddenly everybody was trying their hardest to match Runa's work ethic and build up muscles in hopes of getting into the arena and winning their way to an easy life.

Runa thought the idea of risking your very life for fortune in some godforsaken arena was the stupidest idea she ever heard and resumed lugging around the rocks, same as always. Hard work came with rewards, but some rewards are not worth it.

She eventually saw the upside of training after she was specifically 'requested' to attend the academy and her name was drawn at the seventh reaping. Nobody Volunteered for her, but in the end nobody had needed to.

She still thought risking one's life for riches was stupid, even after winning.

* * *

 **#3: Don't Let Them See When They Get To You**

With Panem being a dog eat dog sort of world it was never a particularly good idea to show weakness, especially in the early years following the Dark Days. One ill timed crying fit, one overly visible crapping of the pants in a terrifying situation, one too many whimpers from hunger and suddenly you were the one at the very bottom of the heap. Swords cut worst, but words had a habit of cutting almost as bad at times.

Runa had been quite literally frog marched into the truck en route to the Overwhill Academy when it's headmaster, Baron's father Elias Overwhill, had come by the village looking for potential recruits with his gang of Peacekeepers. Being the father of a Victor and a loyalist back in the Dark Days granted him some privilege that only continued to rise.

He only had to be briefly pointed towards the 'mammoth girl in the quarries' to know who he was picking out to train. Even if the girl didn't Volunteer, he got paid for each potential killer he signed into the academy.

Runa had refused, of course, having plenty of work to do anyway and no particular interest in leaving her home. She also had no choice and was dragged off, finding herself in a bunkroom that night with nineteen other girls and plenty of anger bubbling around in her soul.

She'd decided against leaving when a would-be escapee got shot two nights later.

It soon became routine. Attend fighting classes, get actual food for lunch, learn some actual subject matter, more food and then being taught battle tactics for an hour before bed. Rinse and repeat. Runa figured it was best to just go along with this crap for the year, knowing she only had one reaping to go and no intent to Volunteer.

The actual work was simple, even easier than anything she'd had to do in the quarries. Being around other people, less so.

She was a quarry rat who just needed bread to feel content. The others, aside from the escapee they shot, were one of three things:

From higher standing in Two society and had greed that only the Games could fulfil

Young criminals who wanted to satisfy their bloodlust in the arena.

Workers from quarries in less broken areas of Two who had some basic idea of how Math worked.

Whatever the case, they liked to pick on the 'slow girl from the boonies' to get out their aggression and just for the pleasure of it. Runa could've broken their arms, of course, but the thirty lashes she got after the first and last time she tried this deterred her from doing it again. It didn't deter the rest from continuing the slander and bullying, as verbal abuse did not carry a penalty so long as it was not done during a lesson.

Runa just acted like a rock, appearing unmovable and holding all of it back as the months snailed by at an agonisingly slow pace. Listening to her Grandpa served her well once again and she became a practically emotionless mountain of a young woman, stronger by the day. Soon enough the others started to think Runa had become too slow to even remember how to emote and began to forget all about it, moving on to somebody else.

Runa did not forget about it. Her District partner, the ring leader among those who harassed her, learnt this when Runa smashed him repeatedly into one of the many concrete walls of the arena, death only claiming him after the twentieth agonising slam.

* * *

 **#4: Sometimes Things Happen For Reasons You Won't Know Until Later**

Runa attended her final reaping without any particular feeling. She'd blocked out most feelings aside from the bare minimum ever since she had been made to join the academy during the previous year and she wasn't unblocking them not, not when one last hurdle remained before she could go home. Even so she couldn't help but smile when she saw her old Grandpa standing in the roped off area at the side with all those inelligable for the reaping, the old man ready to welcome her home.

Her name was picked and, as she stood on the stage with her braid blowing in the unusually strong summer breeze, not a single Volunteer stepped forwards. All of the girls had gotten cold feet.

There was no such issue for the boys when a dark fifteen year old was spared from his fate as a monster of a boy, Sword, stepped forth and became that year's Volunteer. Runa can only scowl at him, shaking his hand for the briefest of moments when ordered to. This boy is a known rapist. It was hanging or the Hunger Games and Mr Overwhill had him sent to the academy.

Runa has no idea why this is happening. She'd never done more than try to live and fight to ensure her own survival. Then again, wasn't that what the Hunger Games were about anyway? Live and keep surviving. The thought that her hard work led her here was a sickening thought to swallow, the fact all that honest effort landed her in the deathmatch of a lifetime.

A lifetime that had a twenty three out of twenty four chance of being a rather short one.

The goodbye with her Grandpa, Runa expecting it to be the final one and him assuming the opposite, is a sombre one. No words are spoken and, until the last minute, Runa doesn't let any of her tears flow. Just promises without words that she'll do her best.

It's later that night, after having locked herself in her room hours ago, that it occurs to her how winning will make sure she and her Grandpa never need to go hungry or bare another freezing winter night ever again. It's what the other girls had wanted before they chickened out, and now Runa decides she might as well go for the same.

That must be the reason for this twist of fate, the chance to work her hardest yet and be rewarded with a lifetime of peace.

Baron is ordered by his father to focus his attention on mentoring Sword to the Victor's throne and to do only the bare minimum for the slow quarry miner. Baron abandons his father's words, intending upon the opposite. He privately tells Runa the next day while Sword showers that he'll make sure she is the last one standing.

Runa sees the second reason for what happened. Making a friend firm ally and friend, one who would be something even more a little over a decade later.

* * *

 **#5: Pay Attention When Given Advice, Especially If It Means Food Or Water**

Each of the six Mentors that year have their own style of guiding the tributes under their care, a style that invariably is worth more than what the six Peacekeepers assigned to the six Districts lacking a victor have to say.

Mizar is fatherly and comforting like he would be for anybody, Pliny quietly emphasises the value of hiding and working with District Twelve, Museida orders complete focus and strong discipline, Honorius rewards intelligence and thinking outside the box, Duke enforces teamwork between his tributes and points them to the Sevens.

As for Baron, he makes a snap decision that entirely comes down to the tribute as an individual. Sword only wants to fight and kill, so Baron just tells him to act strong, mighty and keep training with the biggest weapons.

Runa is told, ordered in fact, to go over survival stations. An area his father tended to overlook due to sponsors seemingly closing off the need for it, Baron need only look back to his own Games and those the year prior to know that without water even the most mighty of tributes will get weak and that sponsors are not everlasting.

He is entirely correct.

Day one is all about survival, but day two is about picking a weapon and also keeping an eye on the other tributes in case of any notable developments. Sword is as aggressive as can be expected, joined by both of the Ones. Both from greedy prospecting families, Gold and Glamour have their eyes on the prize and want to live the lap of luxury for the rest of their lives. They also let in the Four boy, Galleon, after seeing he is a natural with tridents and spears. Mainly just to keep an eye on him, really.

Runa has her alliance, taking note of how they are all focused on combat and do not pay any mind to survival stations like she is. They even scoff at her, shaking their heads at the 'slow girl' who doesn't think to spend her time with the biggest weapons.

Runa thinks back to the fourth and sixth Games, recalling how thirst was a weapon in and of itself.

Rising into the arena and seeing a concrete maze all around her, the Cornucopia having no food within its mouth this year, Runa adds Baron to her list of blessings from lesson one.

* * *

 **#6: Be Careful With Who You Trust**

The tributes are given two minutes to be interviewed on the flight to the arena that year, each interview now having more personalised questions. Runa makes it perfectly clear that she trusts Baron fully.

She doesn't trust her alliance anymore than she trusts the large, hairy spiders in the quarry back home. In fact, even the spiders seem a little bit better in comparison.

Runa gathers up as many of the small number of water bottles within the Cornucopia as she can while her allies begin hacking and slashing, shoving them into a backpack. Runa joins the fighting later than the others, managing to take down the snippy girl from Three, the mute boy from Ten and the boney girl from Twelve. The centre of the concrete maze is crimson, the grey lost under the large pool of blood that spreads around thick and fast as twelve tributes lay lifeless on the hard ground.

It becomes thirteen once Sword finally finishes tearing off the leg of the boy from Nine.

For a while the pack get their breaths back, the only sound being the squeaking of rats running around the clearing and nibbling at the young bodies littered the ground inn excess.

After silently taking the insults spat at her by her arrogant allies, all annoyed over Runa's late start and blaming her as the reason for why Gold lays slumped over a crate with half his face missing, they gear up for the hunt that is soon to begin within the vast maze.

Runa, having never trusted the alliance for a moment, sees it coming when Sword tries to knock off his biggest threat early on by swinging one of his namesakes towards her neck. She dodges and soon she leaves him cursing with a bleeding hand as she scatters off deeper into the maze. Having a pack of three after her is still better than being dead.

On a similar note, Glamour should have been a lot more careful with who she put her trust in as well. It's not long into the Games, merely day three and one kill closer to the end, when she becomes the victim of Sword assaulting her in a way more vile than a stab or a bludgeoning.

Her desperate screams echo across the concrete maze, up until the moment they don't anymore.

Runa is glad she was given the perfect excuse to bolt when she did. She's strong, but knows it could've been her. The thought keeps her up that night in the maze.

* * *

 **#7: If Something Seems Like It May Be Too Good To Be True, It Probably Is**

It's three days and two kills by her own spear later when Runa, suffering hunger pains, sees the burlap sack laying on the ground up ahead in her section of the maze. The only other source of food this year is sponsors and they don't come down often. She stares at the sack for five whole minutes, wondering if it's worth taking the chance and making a rush forwards to grab it.

The instant the sack slumps over to the side and bread rolls tumble out has her turning her back and leaving. Her Grandpa called this sort of thing 'schmuck bait' and she's not a schmuck, no sir.

Runa travels around in search of food. She only gets a merciful sponsor parachute carrying a large chicken leg four hours, two miles, three dozen corridors and twelve dead rat mutts later. As the hunger boils within her, the chicken leg is practically a gift from the heavens above though a gift gone all too soon.

It was just as well that she didn't go for the bread earlier on in the day, because as the sun sets on the massive concrete maze that day the boy from Four, sponsorless after Sword stole all of the attention off of him, makes a run for the sack and is shish kebab'd by a dozen spears that strike out from the floor below him. The bread is left for the rat mutts to enjoy.

* * *

 **#8: Aim High In Life, But Watch Out For Flying Boxes**

The tenth day of the Games ends up being the final one, with only Runa, Sword and a willowy boy from Three by the name of Node still alive in the depths of the maze. Sword tries his hardest to hunt down Node, closing in on him bit by bit, while Runa deals with an issue of her own.

Rat Mutts, these ones ten times as big as a typical rat and with evil red eyes.

She's really starting to hate rats, especially when one gnaws into her shoulder. She kills it before the bastard can do anything serious, but she knows all too well how many diseases rats carry and figures that she'd better end the Games quick lest she suffer the consequences of the rat bite.

The agonised, despairing howls of Node are easy to hear when Sword catches him, but they're a distance from Runa and she can't recall what corridors to take in order to get there.

Recalling one of her Grandpas most confusing bits of advice, she decides it doesn't matter as determination fills her mind and soul. She puts her all into her task of climbing up to the top of the fairly high concrete walls of the maze. Even when some cardboard boxes left up there by forgetful Avoxes during arena construction fall onto her face she keeps going.

She reaches the top just as Node's cannon fires. The screams may have stopped, but it's easy to find where her noisy District Partner is lurking around in search of his last opponent.

Sword always knew to watch his back, but he never got told to look up. Runa leaps upon him from the top of the wall and twenty slams later his head explodes against the concrete wall.

* * *

 **#9: It's Ok To Cry Around Those You Love**

Runa went home, rich and empty. For once, she wasn't empty due to a lack of food but rather from the torment over what she had done in the arena. The Capitol had loved it, the citizens delighted to see that District Two was now the first of the Districts to have a second Victor. Already they had a fanbase emerging, the Typoon Twos, who vowed to support the District for centuries.

In her new home, right next door to Baron's, Runa wept into her Grandpa's shoulder, feeling like she was just a little whelp of barely a few years of age all over again.

"I hurt them Grandpa," Runa whispered, shaking so much she is nearly sick. "I hurt them so bad before they died."

"You did what you had to do," her Grandpa replied, as caring now as he was before. "Only one was getting out and you just did what you needed to do to make sure it was you. You're still my little rock lifter."

Runa wasn't sure if she agreed at all, but tried her best to keep her Grandpa's words in mind for all of her waking hours. It was one of the few things that helped in the difficult weeks that followed after her time in the concrete maze.

The other thing, of course, was her new neighbour and best friend. Baron was the only other person in Two and one of the only people alive who had any understanding of how it all felt. It wasn't long at all before they were spending days together and doing a variety of activities side by side whether it was talking, planning for future Games, bodybuilding, reading... anything really. Anything that distracted them and gave both of them a way to get it all out for a while. The pair were unlike almost all of the Victors from Two who came after them. Among the only ones who did not willingly take part because of greed and desire as well as being among the few lost all of the 'Games spirit' the second that they were the last one standing, they were a far different generation of Victors than the many that would follow them.

They were also the only two Victors from District Two to kiss one another as anything beyond a party dare.

* * *

 **#10: Say Yes More Often Than No**

"Will you marry me?" Baron asked one night while the two sat on his porch, an orange sunset cast upon the Victor Village.

"Yes," Runa said, happy tears welling in her eyes and her hands trembling with joy.

* * *

Katniss and Peeta were silent, not having much more to say.

"Makes me glad that we decided to come to the party," Peeta said after a pause. "I mean, we don't know much about Runa. We don't know much beyond the basics of most Victors. Those who are still alive will help us learn."

"What do you think we'll have to tell them in return? I mean, we don't have as many years behind us. Not as many stories to tell," Katniss said, pondering this as she and her boyfriend kept moving.

"I guess... just let them know we're still living and doing our best to hang in there?" Peeta suggested, giving a soft shrug.

The pair soon looked down at the eighth face on the ground. A snooty looking girl with an elegant aura to her, immaculate hair in the imprint of her face and a pointy nose.

"Peridot Gaudy," Katniss said, her expression perfectly neutral. "The first true Career to win."

* * *

District Two may be a powerful place full of Careers, but who says every single one of their Victors was a Volunteer? Not I! Runa's tale was a fun one to write for I'd say. I feel she came off as quite human and a good addition to the six Victors before her. Plus, a Victor pair... let the shipping begin! Stay tuned guys, the first Career to triumph is lurking pretty damn near...

* * *

 **Stats**

 **District 1:** N/A

 **District 2:** Baron Overwhill (4th Games), Runa Peace (7th Games)

 **District 3:** Honorius Perthshire (5th Games)

 **District 4:** Museida Selkirk (3rd Games)

 **District 5:** N/A

 **District 6:** N/A

 **District 7:** Pliny Aransio (2nd Games)

 **District 8:** N/A

 **District 9:** Mizar Aldjoy (1st Games)

 **District 10:** N/A

 **District 11:** N/A

 **District 12:** Duke Saint-Rose (6th Games)


	9. Peridot Gaudy

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Hunger Games. They belong to Suzanne Collins.

 **Note:** The day of the Careers has arrived, and with it so has more additions to the 'modern meta' of the Hunger Games that we know and obsessively fangasm over. As before, worldbuilding is fun and this chapter was certainly no exception. I don't have overly much to say I hope you like the eighth Victor on the list. :)

* * *

"This one I remember," Katniss said, glancing off to the side. "She featured in a project they made Prim's class do. About important figures in Panem history, and who better to put in the minds of kids in Twelve than the first Career to win?"

Katniss silently wiped away a small tear, the thoughts of her sister quickly filling her up with grief.

"At least we have therapists now," Katniss muttered, her arms folded tightly.

"Apparently the Career Districts did, starting at the tenth Games. No such luck for 'Outliers'," Peeta said, a comforting arm around his girlfriend. "...Peridot gave the Careers in one their true beginning. Real or not real?"

"Real," Katniss confirmed for Peeta, looking down at the elegant and proper Career girl's face on the ground.

* * *

 **8th Annual Hunger Games**

 **Name:** Peridot Gaudy

 **Gender:** Female

 **District:** 1

 **Age:** 17

 **Kills:** 7

* * *

Twelve might be considered a number with a certain meaning to it in Panem. Twelve Districts for decades, tributes being eligible at the age of twelve, twelve pairs of tributes overall, twelve houses in the Victor Villages, the Mockingjay Rebellion originating from District Twelve and an all time kill record of twelve victims _[as seen in the Fifty Ninth Hunger Games]_.

In District One the number twelve has its own meaning. Separated into twelve large estates of its own, the first of these is the Flawless Estate. It's home to twelve noble families, more or less the only individuals amongst those in the Districts whose wealth can rival people bought up inside the cushy, pampered Capitol.

It's a daily bloodbath for supremacy, the likes of which you'd not have even seen on the trashiest television back before the Dark Days. Ever since Panem came to exist it's been one argument after another with these elite families over money, property, bloodline, inheritance and all the rest of it. Like a Wendigo of legend, they can never ever be satisfied.

It's around the time in the Seventh Games when Gold has part of his face torn away by Node and his flail when the talk typical talks between the families go into a new direction.

The Hunger Games.

It's a record breaking four seconds (the last record was three seconds) before it turns into another vicious argument. Some of the families such as those from House Platinum and House Royalty see no need to do a thing, the odds being in their favour of avoiding the reaping effecting them and their children being well fed and strong anyway. Others like House Court and House Victory want to follow the example of what the rumour mill tells of Mr Overwhill in Two, having their own training centre. 'The few youths who self-trained and volunteered mostly did fine before their deaths, why not build on it to reap some glory and gratitude' they said, certain that President Orion would be fine with this given how there is the odd distant relative of his in One here and there.

House Fragrance wants a Victor within the family to firmly put them at the top and say that their boy has a solid chance of pulling it off in the next Hunger Games.

From there the figureheads of each of the noble families are practically inches away from knifing each other like actual tributes would. They don't even realise that Glamour was raped and murdered by Sword until hours after the sickening deed is done – consequently, this further defeat is used by Houses Court and Victory as another reason why a training academy is needed – as the arguments just go on and on. It devolves into a screaming fit of whose child has the best chance to win the Hunger Games.

House Saint-Silver are convinced their daughter Caramel has it on lock, simple as that.

House Moonlight shriek that their son Handbag could easily beat the current kill record set by Baron a few years prior.

House Court calls Handbag a living accessory, a fact only proven by his name they say, and affirm their confidence in their own son Jacinth's chances... naturally, the fact the next reaping would be his twelfth birthday doesn't factor into anything.

House Saffron call the other houses literal shit and are cold as ice when they say their girl Fantastica will be told to murder any of the sons of the other noble houses who might volunteer with her, and before the filth in Twelve at that.

House Fragrance finds the whole affair rather amusing, thinking it's one big joke that the other houses insist on pretending that their eldest son Topaz isn't the clear winner.

House Platinum remind the other houses that their second eldest boy – the eldest being too old by now – is known to be a master at archery and that Awesome has no mercy to spare for any who get in his way.

House Royalty were always keen to boast about their twins Cash and Coin with this being no exception. Glory meaning everything to them, they were more than willing to declare that both siblings would enter the next Hunger Games side by side.

House Victory said that their very name reflected triumph and success, so it was only fitting their girl Harp would become what her very name suggested. They saw it as a mere trivial detail that the girl was severely autistic and clearly not the swordfighter they hyped her up as.

House Château didn't deem the other nobles worth talking to, instead already phoning up the Head Peacekeeper and offering a handsome bribe in exchange for their fifteen year old son Whoa to be the male tribute of the Eighth Annual Hunger Games. They are ever so kindly told to fuck off as, noble or not, the Head Peacekeeper thinks they are bastards.

House Goldclaw have no children young enough, their two powerful sons already in their early twenties. They feel desperate enough to consider adopting a street urchin for their cause.

House Velvet brag over having two or three relatives in the Capitol who can pull strings to tilt the odds in the favour of their pride and joy, a vicious boy named Cadbury. The house, known for being perhaps the most elitist, cruel and backstabbing of the lot are firmly assured of Victory a year before the Games are even there.

House Gaudy vow that Peridot shall be the grandest champion of them all. The Gaudy's, seen as the lesser of the twelve houses, are sneered and laughed at. They're mere millionaires among billionaires, after all. Nevertheless, they don't back down and remain confident in their daughter.

Eventually it is decided that the houses will at least try to fake getting along so that they can get a training academy of their own started off. With all of them on board for the idea, Orion having some relatives in the District and the fact House Velvet has Capitol relatives it's all but certain this will be approved. All of the twelve noble houses know this shall be the year of District One and, privately, all of them assume it to be the year of their own house.

The children who were at the heart of the vicious argument and extremely unstable agreement don't know about any of this. They only know a week later when the President makes a personal visit to the Flawless Estate to give his blessings for the training academy to go ahead.

His only condition is that the nobles children all train as the first batch of potential tributes and whichever two get picked kill at least five children. The families all agree to this on their behalf.

Peridot thinks her family and neighbours are nuts, but then again she did always want to move up in the world and visit the Capitol.

* * *

It's not hard to find a good location to set up the academy. District One has plenty of wondrous properties and castles dotted around the lush landscape, the only issue being which one to actually go with. In the end a delightful six story castle built at the top of a grassy valley is deemed appropriate.

One day the Avoxes and other staff sent from the Capitol arrive to quickly set everything up just-so for the training ahead.

The next day all of the reaping eligible noble children arrive, each family having managed to send at least one offspring with the firm order to bring back the ultimate glory to their family. Failure is not permitted... not that it ever was, but this time the point is really driven in.

The first three days of training go well enough, most of the noble children display at leats moderate competence with a weapon or two and understanding how to use their personalities to appeal to a crowd. Two issues are noted:

Some of the children are friends and would never kill one another even if only they remained.

Having the noble families overseeing the training is doomed to fail as there is literally no possible way to choose who will actually be the tributes without extreme bias being present. A Court would only choose a Court, a Fragrence would only choose a Fragrence and so on.

By the fifth day a simple solution is found, that being to just get Peacekeeper Ronald Bayonet – the same one who watches over tributes from One until they have a Victor – to pick out who he deems to be the best candidates. Wanting to see 'his' District win, the man is willing to agree to this request.

It takes him not even a day to rule that Harp is clearly not fit to be a tribute, having issues truly understanding what everybody is training for and seeing it as some kind of a new, strange game. She doesn't mind being sent home. After all, Ronald was nice enough to give her a strawberry for the road.

Also ruled out at this early stage is Jacinth. Ronald claims that his exceptional speed doesn't matter, as in the end he's just a small twelve year old who the volunteers from Two would easily butcher when the time came.

Houses Victory and Court fume in utter disgrace, angered at their children, while the remaining ten noble houses feel all the more self-assured of their chances of having a Victor within the family.

As the noble children move on to focusing exclusively on swordplay for the next few weeks the noble families decide the time has already arrived to drive wedges amongst the children in preparation for the Games. Alliances are well and good, and if anything the nobles want the pair of tributes to be able to work together at the start, but they want to ensure their own noble house is directly responsible for the death of a member of a separate house.

A month of borderline brainwashing is all it takes for the children, some of them at least, to begin feeling wary and even a bit cold to one another.

* * *

By the time three months have gone by House Goldclaw has been eliminated, the street rat they took in (an anxious boy by the name of Ring) being deemed as a sub par fighter and lacking the potential for developing a killer instinct. He returns to the streets, discreetly stealing a golden necklace from the nobles along the way.

He's never caught for it.

Meanwhile the other children continue to develop their talents and gradually start to go from friends, or at least feigning tolerance for one another, to showing some open hostility.

Seventeen year old Coin and Cash, twins and the best of friends, naturally stick side by sick. They work together, using their natural number advantage to constantly harass Caramel in the hopes that the fifteen year old will crack and slip up in her training. After all, they don't want her getting _too_ good with a sword.

Caramel cracks alright, taking her aggression out on a sixteen year old boy she never got along with anyway. Whoa is certainly not whoa'd by being beaten up by Caramel, giving her a black eye and taking out the anger unleashed within him upon Fantastica, figuring that the sixteen year old of the family his father hates is as good a target as any.

Fantastica takes to venting out the pain by shoving around Handbag. The gorgeous eighteen year old brute has none of it, shoving back... and accidently shoving Fantastica over a balcony and right onto a marble fountain below. As the water turns red and House Saffron becomes doomed to die out, Handbag tries to act like nothing happened.

He's executed by firing squad for the murder two days later, killing outside the arena being illegal. Consequently, House Moonlight is also doomed to become extinct.

While all of the fighting goes on, the potential tributes getting more and more deadly as the weeks pass, Peridot stands back from it all. Why waste training time with all this classless bullying? There will be plenty of time for that in the arena. She simply hones her skills with the sword every day, sticking to a rigid schedule.

"Why is everybody here so fucking stupid?" she laments one night, tucked up in the fine bed she was provided at the academy. "Why can't people be more mature and intelligent like me?"

Her suggestion that the other noble children still competing for the chance to be a tribute perhaps not act like savages goes unheard and leaves her covered in both spit and with a broken arm administered by Cadbury of House Velvet (specifically, this is the sixth time in her life that this boy had broken her arm). What reason have they to listen to a Gaudy, they ask.

Peridot makes a note to take Cadbury's sword and later shove it up his ass, as base and classless as the act might be.

* * *

Time passes until eventually the Eighth Annual Hunger Games are a month away. By now most of the noble children have been eliminated, told to either try again next year or warned against trying due to the certainty of their deaths.

Furthermore, Whoa died when his lucky charms turned out to have been poisoned. Nobody knows that it was Cash and Coin who did it.

At this point only Cash, Coin, Cadbury and Peridot remain as contenders, with Ronald claiming he could see all of them as potential Victors. But with two tributes allowed and four candidates he comes up with a fairly simple solution to settle things.

As Cadbury is in his final year of eligibility he is given the spot of the male tribute, Coin being promised he will be going in the following year. House Velvet is over the moon while House Royalty threaten their boy with a year lacking caviar as a punishment for making them wait another year to have a Victor in the family.

As Peridot and Cash are both seventeen they are put into a tie breaker, that being a sword duel. Both are given fake swords to ensure neither get killed before the arena even arrives and told to keep going until their opponent yields. The winner goes in the Eighth Games, the loser taking part in the Ninth.

"You're gonna wish you stayed in your hovel," Cash sneers as she and Peridot circle each other.

"You're gonna wish you spent more time focusing on training than on slandering other kids like a common pebble," Peridot replies, gripping her sword so tightly that her knuckles turn white.

The fight is as vicious as anybody could expect a sword duel between two teenage noblewomen to be. Both are evenly matched for over ten minutes, the fake blades clattering and clanging as bruises are inflicted again and again. Peridot keeps her focus, working her way around Cash's fancy movements and graceful style. She tries to mimic this as best as she can.

"Were your parents related? Like, before they were married?" Cash asks, snickering.

Peridot promptly decides' fuck it' and, with all the social standing of a caveman, kicks Cash right in her groin, following up with a few strikes to her neck while she is flailing around.

The end result of course is that Peridot becomes the female tribute and the twins are forbidden from having caviar for an entire year, the news making them both weep.

"Nobody said we couldn't fight dirty if it would help. If only one can live, might as well do anything it takes," Peridot says, shrugging.

Cadbury finds that he quite agrees with Peridot for once, already wondering how he can best take her down in even dirtier fashion. After the Outliers, of course. A Velvet boy must have _some_ class.

* * *

With how wealthy the noble families of District One were it was no surprise that most of the Capitol knew who they were, down to each and every member. So naturally, the news that two nobles of One were coming to the Capitol to compete in their quote-unquote beloved pageant was the talk of the grand city.

So much so that the Capitol Citizens demanded to see more of the nobles before the Games began. They howled and cried, refusing to wait until the hovercraft interview.

Orion, wanting to see for himself what his approval of Careers in One had led to, was more than willing to comply. He'd ordered a grand stage to be constructed in his favourite park of his beloved city and had a hoard of audience booths made. Perfect setting for a live interview.

Of course, the 'Typhoon Twos' thought it was unfair that their favourite District wasn't going to get an interview so Orion shrugged and let all of the tributes get an interview. With there being an admission fee he thought it'd only make him even richer anyway.

That's why, on the fifth of July that summer, Peridiot found herself as the first tribute in history to be interview in front of massive audience by Mortimer. Ladies first was the Capitol way after all, even if Cadbury thought it was bullshit to be literally number two in this case.

Peridot paid him no mind, happy with the spotlight she was getting and took the chance to use her three minutes of fame to talk about her grand family, how easy it was to master the sword and outperform all of the other girls to get to where she was now.

"Can you outwit the twenty three tributes watching from backstage?" Mortimer asked her.

"Does a mutt kill?" Peridot responded, lightly. "Of course I can. Just watch, House Gaudy is going to be the best of all the nobles in a week tops. ...Can I have your autograph."

Mortimer shed a tear, having never before been so flattered.

* * *

The arena was a first that year. The tributes were launched and began shivering in their fluffy outfits as the countdown begun, the winter tundra full of fir trees around them barely being hospitable. The vicious howl of the wind had some tributes mistakenly think that a mutt was looming nearby and start to panic.

Cadbury and Peridot, having seen plenty of bitter winters in One from the comfort of their homes, knew it was just a rather nasty winter breeze.

Tiny boy Martin from Six didn't know this, freaking out over the imaginary monster and tumbling off of his pedestal.

The mystery of 'what happens if you step off your pedestal early' was answered for all as Martin was blasted into bloody pieces by the landmines. This only served to make many of the tributes freak out and scream even more.

No more tributes fell to the mines, but their shattered mindsets and panic attacks that were setting in put the odds completely in favour of the pack that had formed from the Ones and the Twos. Paying no mind to the screaming children around her nor to the boy from Twelve who sped past her on his charge away from the looming carnage, Peridot charged towards the Cornucopia and grabbed hold of a fine, thin sword.

It had the Gaudy family crest added to it by the Gamemakers.

From there, the outcome of the bloodbath was as clear cut as the corpse of the tall boy from Eleven twenty seconds after Peridot grabbed her sword. With the bulk of the tributes in the midst of severe panic attacks on, or near, their pedestals it was open season for the quartet and their weapons. Nobody managed to put up a real fight against them, their training paying off very well.

By the time the dust settled by the Cornucopia in that snowy, windy tundra only nine tributes were still standing. The corpses of fifteen innocent children (or perhaps, fourteen corpses and one splattered pile of gore in the case of Martin) were slumped around, the shiny white snow now a grisly crimson. The entire starting area had literally been turned an entirely different colour because of all the blood.

The term 'Cornucopia Bloodbath' became mainstream about seven minutes later.

Cadbury cheered and danced a little bit, having gotten six kills already. Granite and Mika from Two had managed two kills each, feeling this was a good omen due to how it matched their District.

Peridot, sitting upon a crate and quickly putting on two of the spare sweaters at the Cornucopia for added protection from the cold, had taken out four of the other tributes. She couldn't help but think of the screams and sobs for mercy sent her way.

Her family back home must have been pleased and that removed all of her doubts for the rest of her life. She rose, cleaning the blood off her sword with a fine cloth.

"Let's go," Peridot said without hesitation. "Five of them out there and if we're quick we should be able to catch them before they can get too far away. We're the most graceful, fast runners. It'll be easy."

Granite and Mika agreed, having no desire to make it last longer than it had to. They didn't like the freezing arena at all, already missing the warm summer they had left back in Two.

Cadbury agreed as well, wanting to see if he could best Baron's kill record. But he had an idea of his own.

"Somebody needs to stay guard," Cadbury stated, calm for once. "If they take our stuff this will only take longer. Peri, you're staying."

"Why me?" Peridot asked, narrowing her eyes. "...And don't call me Peri."

"You got four kills. You're clearly a competent guard if anybody tries something." Cadbury said, shrugging. "I got the most kills so I should be leading the hunt and these two, well, I figure you guys want a chance to catch up to my score a bit?"

"Do you even need to ask?" Mika stated, Granite nodding his agreement.

"...Fine," Peridot grumbled, sitting down on a crate and crossing her arms.

"Sweet," Cadbury said, smirking as he led his allies off into the tundra, following a trail of footprints left by one of the Outliers. "See you later Peri."

The noble boy's grin widened when Peridot's demand that he not call her Peri echoed around the tundra. Truthfully he didn't care about there being a guard, figuring that even if an Outlier took something he'd still be able to best them regardless. He just didn't want Peridot taking away the glory he intended to get for his family. Cadbury was many things, and one of those things was a hater of 'kill stealing'.

He slayed the boy from Seven that night, his allies cheering him on, having no idea what a mistake he had just made.

He'd given Peridot a chance to form her own plan, away from where he could see her.

* * *

While the trio of Careers hunted down in the southern reaches of the tundra throughout the second day, making a slow loop upwards to the eastern reaches, Peridot remained at the Cornucopia with a plan already in mind.

It had been easy to take out the girl from Nine, the one who had told many bad puns in her interview, when she tried to steal from the Cornucopia. She was half frozen anyway.

Cadbury and the Twos wouldn't be quite so simple, given they had extra jumpers and plenty of hot soup being sponsored to them by the hour. The Outliers who were not too cold to run were even able to evade the pack, for now, by using the discarded parachutes as clues about the pack's location.

The second day in the tundra went down as easily the most boring of the Eighth Hunger Games. The pack found nobody that day, while aside the demise of the girl from Nine the Outliers kept on moving around despite gradually getting colder and colder. It was a slow game of cat and mouse. Too cold for the liking of the Capitol citizens.

Luckily for the pampered Capitolites, Peridot was making the most of having the Cornucopia to herself. Having noticed the snow was particularly thick any deeper than an inch down she had asked the sponsors for a small trowel. With this she dug out several small foot sized holes here and there around the clearing. The idea being that somebody may carelessly step into them and cause a broken ankle to ensue if they were moving around too quickly.

"Come on. Come and get me," Peridot muttered that night. "My sword hungers ever so much."

* * *

The third day was one of the best days District One had ever seen in the Hunger Games thus far. Tundra arenas, as can logically be expected, were freezing. Most tributes, even the poorest among them, had simply no resistance to this kind of low temperature.

That's why the nobles of District One were disappointed as their tributes odds of beating the kill record fell lower around midday. The fisher girl from Four simply collapsed from the cold, never to rise again. After her frosty death half an hour later the once infamous chatterbox girl from Three fell silent forever as she, too, froze to death.

"Couldn't they have the decency to have dragged their frozen bodies over to Cadbury so he could make use of them and increase his score?" Fame Velvet had said back in One, displeased that his son was looking less likely to beat the kill record.

"Couldn't agree more," Felicia Velvet had agreed, distinctly disgusted.

The Gaudy's on the other hand didn't make much comment, more focused on how the burly boy from Twelve snuck back to the Cornucopia, desperate for food and warmth.

He broke his ankle in one of the holes and moments later broke his brain at the end of Peridot's sword. She returned to her soup, already moving on from her deceased foe and mainly just annoyed that the pack had utterly ditched her and left her no chance to fully explore the arena.

In the north, however, the pack were interrupted from returning to the Cornucopia – Cadbury planning on killing Peridot first and foremost – when a roar filled their ears.

From a mile away Peridot could only scoff at the dreadful sound, her sensitive ears already throbbing a bit. One polite request to her sponsors later and a fine set of earmuffs were hers, nicely blocking out the sound.

Meanwhile Cadbury led his allies in a battle against a vicious yeti. It seemed like they were winning as well because, even with Mika from Two suffering the dreadful inconvenience of her head being torn off of her shoulders and dropkicked away by the Yeti, the beast itself was bleeding badly.

"Come on, kill it!" Granite yelled.

"I'd rather kill you," Cadbury said, smirking.

Cadbury left that area of the tundra two minutes later with a dead yeti and a defeated District behind him. With only the Gaudy girl left he knew he had it on lock.

Peridot felt that, with only the Velvet boy left, she had the Games on lock.

* * *

They met two hours after midnight as Cadbury made a grand charge at the Cornucopia, easily spotting Peridot in the middle of the clearing. His family popped open their most expensive champagne as they prepared to welcome their son back as a Victor and celebrate the certain end of the Gaudy family line.

"You're gonna die Peri!" he roared.

The elitist pair began screaming and shrieking in mad panic as blood erupted form Cadbury's ankle, the powerful young man having stepped into one of the hole traps Peridot had dug. He collapsed, screaming and cursing as Peridot approached him at a dainty walk.

"You talk too much," Peridot said as she shoved a rag into Cadbury's mouth.

What came next was perhaps the single most humiliating death of the entire first two decades of the Hunger Games. The shame of it would never ever leave the Velvet family line, even after they all died out, and often popped up on many Hunger Games Countdown lists broadcast over the years.

Peridot observed her sword and her fallen enemy. Years of bullying, mocking and cruelty came to the forefront of the young women's mind. She strutted her way behind Cadbury, starting to smirk.

"You always told me to take my family and everything we are... and to shove it up my posterior," Peridot said, snooty. "See my family crest on the hilt of the sword? I'm doing the opposite of what you demanded of me. I'm taking my family and shoving it up _your_ ass."

Over the next minute the nation could only watch in an utterly stunned silence (or, in the case of the Velvet's, a screaming rage full of humiliation) as Peridot shoved the sword up her fallen foe's ass right up to the hilt of the blade.

Peridot left the arena a minute later while Cadbury lay still in a pool of blood and humiliation. The cameras, naturally, took a moment to focus on the Gaudy family crest upon the sword hilt.

The Gaudy family went from the lowest nobles to the top in the time it took Peridot to jam the sword in its special sheathe.

The Velvet family became laughing stocks amongst the nobles, dying out due to excess drinking a mere three years later.

* * *

"You know, with how often Career families have tributes enter the Games every generation I don't think I can recall hearing about a relative of Peridot going in," Katniss said, thoughtful. "You'd think that it'd be a fact that they'd have forced people to know, the descendent of the first successful Career going into the arena."

"You'd think that," Peeta said, nodding in agreement. "Don't quote me on this, but I vaguely recall hearing she was sterile. Impossible to have kids."

"Before the Games ended that honestly sounds like a good thing anywhere except a Career District," Katniss remarked, slowly shaking her head. "Where did you hear that?"

"Remember I did that class project on the various kinds of bread among all twelve Districts?" Peeta asked. "Peridot was kind of addicted to the bread from One and it was listed as a trivia fact. Apparently it was her comfort food following learning she was sterile, but it may have been a prank. Wasn't an officially licensed book."

"Panem is a strange place," Katniss said, blankly as she and Peeta moved on further down the long street. "...Think this one slept her way through the Games as well?"

Imprinted upon the sidewalk was a cheeky looking girl, playfully sticking her tongue out.

"I don't think it ever happened again, so I'd say not," Peeta said. "Hmmm... can't say I know anything about Fir Buzz."

* * *

There we go, the first of the many Careers who entered the Games and left with their life intact. After all, I don't think Baron and Runa really count as Careers per-say. So, Peridot! Elegant, powerful, a good look into the noble families of District One and... probably my favourite final kill so far? Just... whoa. Some people really don't fuck around when it comes to making their own family name great and another family name fall into ruin. Stay tuned for more!

* * *

 **Stats**

 **District 1:** Peridot Gaudy (8th Games)

 **District 2:** Baron Overwhill (4th Games), Runa Peace (7th Games)

 **District 3:** Honorius Perthshire (5th Games)

 **District 4:** Museida Selkirk (3rd Games)

 **District 5:** N/A

 **District 6:** N/A

 **District 7:** Pliny Aransio (2nd Games)

 **District 8:** N/A

 **District 9:** Mizar Aldjoy (1st Games)

 **District 10:** N/A

 **District 11:** N/A

 **District 12:** Duke Saint-Rose (6th Games)


	10. Fir Buzz

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Hunger Games. They belong to Suzanne Collins.

 **Note:** What a speed we're going at, huh? Already almost at the end of the first decade of the Hunger Games. It's certainly been tons of fun so far to write the early days of Panem's glorified child murder game, and it's nice indeed to see people have been liking the way things are unfolding. Let's hope the trend of good content can keep up and that I can avoid any hiccups along the way. Now for Victor #9, Fir!

* * *

"Know anything about Fir at all?" Peeta asked, observing the imprinted face at his feet.

"Nothing," Katniss replied. "Unless the fact she's dead counts. Johanna was the only living female Victor from Seven before this all took off. Makes you wonder what might have happened if one of the other female Victors had been in that Quell."

"I'd rather not think about it," Peeta replied, unable to suppress a shudder. "... Snow is still out there and wants us dead, real or not real?"

"Not real," Katniss said, gently holding Peeta closer to herself.

The pair stood quietly for a while, paying respect to the Victor whose actions had been lost to time. No youth of Twelve was likely to know much about Fir, after all.

All those decades ago Fir hardly knew anything about herself either.

* * *

 **9th Annual Hunger Games**

 **Name:** Fir Buzz

 **Gender:** Female

 **District:** 7

 **Age:** 16

 **Kills:** 3

* * *

Nobody ever knew for sure where she had come from.

One day she was found unconscious in the forest, sprawled out in a bush. She had a bruise on her head and clearly looked quite ragged. It was a Peacekeeper patrol that had found her during a routine march through the forest to ensure all was well and there were no dangerous animals on the loose that might hinder productivity.

Naturally, they had to wake her up and interrogate the girl. When it became clear she was deeply unconscious and not simply asleep after a botched runaway they lessened the harshness somewhat, but all of their questioning led to one clear cut conclusion.

The girl had no idea who she was or what had happened that led her to a forest in Seven. The only thing the nine year old could remember was the sounds of choking. This was of no help as she had no idea why she remembered this, nor did she remember who had been choking.

With all attempts to jog her memory leading to a dead end the Peacekeepers decided that the only thing they could really do was enrol her as a citizen of District Seven and arrange for her to move to one of the care homes of the nearby Town 152. Whether or not she was a Seven before she lost her memory, it would cause the least issue to just keep the mysterious girl where she was.

As she didn't remember her own name it was the leader of the Peacekeeper patrol, Montgomery Tiberius, who gave her the name Fir Buzz.

* * *

Despite her complete lack of a memory Fir settled into Seven just fine, taking to the idea of chopping down a tree like a duck to water and quickly fell in with the other youths well on their way to becoming legally enforced lumberjacks or, in the case of the all female team Fir was assigned to, 'lumberjills'. She could handle an axe just fine and the nine years of her life she could not possibly remember never caused her any particular amount of anxiety.

In fact, she was among the most cheerful of kids in District Seven. Perhaps the memory loss had spared her the worst of her memories, or maybe it was easier to live and not know a thing about the Dark Days of years prior, but whatever the case Fir tended to face every hill and valley in life with a smile.

That, and puns. Many, _**many**_ puns.

After the Dark Days Seven was a particularly broken and grim place. Broken forests full of death, contaminated lakes, mutts running loose... it was a mess. So, the population tended to look for any vague sense of amusement as a distraction from it all. Even having one of the first Victors and proof that they had a chance in the arena didn't really help.

Fir had been with a team of other young girls, chopping down smaller trees that were needed to be cleared so that the trucks had more space to drive to and from the main lumber camps. One of them had sneakily picked a juicy orange from where it had been growing.

Lucky for that girl the maggots inside the orange had poked their 'heads' out before she could take a bite. She squealed, tossing it far away. Having seen this Fir said her next words as if by pure reflex.

"Orange you glad you didn't bite into it?"

The whole group had begun giggling, their spirits raised as they resumed their work. Seeing them smiling gave Fir a clear idea of what she wanted to do in life. Or, more accurately, her very limited spare time.

* * *

The Redwood Lodge was a tavern the Peacekeepers frequented, as even they needed some downtime like anybody else. It wasn't much, just a typical place to get some drinks and maybe a meal here and there if time permitted, but it suited the men in white just fine.

There was also a stage, often unused unless a Peacekeeper was drunk enough to do some karaoke.

Being favoured by the Peacekeepers – being found by them half an hour before a bear came through the area had endeared them to Fir, and the soldiers would admit the youth made for decent company. She caused no trouble at least and respected them just fine. - made it simple for Fir to be allowed inside the tavern for a short while and that extended to the stage. Well, they had never explicitly stated she could not go on it.

That's how Fir ended up finding herself on stage one afternoon telling a serious of particularly bad puns.

"What do you call cheese that isn't yours? Nacho cheese!"

"Why couldn't the boy see the pirate movie? It was rated arrrrrrr!"

"Why is Pliny the best Lumberjill we've ever had? She's always sawing logs!"

Montgomery Tiberius was soon laughing uproariously, highly enjoying the show. His men soon joined in and began to applaud, demanding more jokes. And so, the puns kept on coming. A few glass bottles were also thrown by citizens who were rather sick of the puns, but before Montgomery could give a command to arrest the culprits Fir had simply caught all of the bottles and began effortlessly juggling them while resuming her joke yelling.

"You know what?" Montgomery later said to his men. "I'm glad we found this girl. She's alright."

His men were inclined to agree, tossing coins up to the stage every time Fir told a good joke. Due to Peacekeepers having no real shortage of money in District Seven and Fir having a rather odd natural gift for entertainment, this inevitably led to Fir being able to make a living entertaining the men in white and not having to return to the lumber camps again.

* * *

As Fir grew, so did her joke telling talent. It was rare she'd not make a real killing in The Redwood Lodge, being a nightly performer and something of a local celebrity in Town 152. Peacekeepers came from around to watch her shows – District Citizens were forbidden to go between towns, lest they face a flurry of bullets to the face – and Fir could only smile at the way they cheered her name.

But with age comes wisdom, though Fir found she really did not have much of it. After all, there were nine years of her life that she was missing and at the age of fifteen she had barely more maturity than a six year old. She could perform all the basic tasks of somebody her age, but her maturity and world view was notably lagging behind, as was her school work.

"Sir, where did I come from?" she asked one day, seated at the bar beside Montgomery.

Montgomery paused from drinking his beer, looking at the tall brunette beside him. She gazed at him with all sincerity, eager to know where.

"I honestly don't know," he said after a moment.

"What? I thought you knew everything," Fir said, confused.

"Not everything, just almost everything," Montgomery said, smirking. "But really, all we know is we found you unconscious in that forest and you didn't even know your own name. I called you Fir, but it's just as likely your name might be Magnolia, Triller or maybe Katie."

"Who would name their daughter Katie?" Fir asked, making a face.

"Beats the hell out of me. Anyway, the only other thing we know is that you've always had a knack for entertainment and juggling. Nothing else but that," Montgomery said, finishing his drink. "We'll probably never know."

That was the last Fir ever asked about it, figuring that it wasn't really important. She decided that it didn't really matter what she had left behind when she was happy with what she had now. Especially as what she used to have, if anything, wasn't something she could even recall anyway.

* * *

Even when she was reaped for the Ninth Annual Hunger Games she treated it like a big joke of some sort, mounting the stage alongside a burly young man with a smile on her face.

"I'm just glad I won't have to go to school tomorrow," she told the Escort who asked her how she was feeling.

It marked the first and last time that Peacekeepers felt upset over a reaping in Seven, all of them being rather fond of the funny amnesiac girl who had entertained them for years. It was also the only time where Peacekeepers visited a tribute in the Judgement Building.

Montgomery spent a full thirty minutes going over combat tactics with Fir and giving her a brief lesson on how to wrestle.

"If you can get your opponent on the ground then you'll always have an advantage over them even if they're one of those killers from Two," he had told Fir. "Pin them, take away their weaponry and do what you have to do."

Fir listened with rapt attention, nodding constantly and not letting a single second of the Peacekeeper's lecture go unheeded. But all too soon it was time to say goodbye. Even a Peacekeeper has to leave when it's time for a tribute to board the train.

"Peacekeepers aren't supposed to have any family," Montgomery said, uncharacteristically forlorn. "But, you've always been something of a daughter to me. Be safe."

He was surprised when Fir flung her arms around him.

"You've always been like a daddy to me," she said, smiling. "I'll come back and tell even more puns than ever before."

"See to it that you do," Montgomery said, smirking lightly. "That's an order, and you cannot disobey a Peacekeeper's orders."

* * *

At the Capitol Fir had no issues making herself a favourite among the citizens, if only for her cheerful nature and how she treated things like a party of sorts. To the Capitolites life was quite literally a party, so they felt a sense of attachment and relation to the amnesiac joke teller. 'Why can't all of the tributes have her sense of humour' they asked. It was, after all, incredibly new at the time to see a tribute who wasn't either bloodthirsty, scared or straight up grumpy. Only the girl from Nine the year prior had tried to be funny, and it was agreed her jokes were both forced and terrible.

Fir passed the time in training by painting moustaches on training dummies with paint, making cheeky gestures with the swords and making several bad puns when the Gamemakers were watching her. If her reputation was being 'the funny tribute' then she was more than happy to embrace it.

Fir may have been this year's funny tribute, but there were numerous contenders for the roles of 'terrified tribute', 'miserable tribute' and 'deadly tribute'. The boys from eight, ten and twelve filled the former, the pair from Six filling the second and all from One and Two being the only candidates for the latter. Coin and Cash were deadly with teamwork skills that most siblings could only dream of, while Thor and Terrapin from Two were making it their goal to try and intimidate all of the tributes from Three through to Twelve with their sword skills.

Fir just made a joke about them being number Two and asking if that's why they smelt bad.

* * *

As with the year prior there were live interviews. It had been a massive hit the first time and the crowd wanted more, especially since nobles Coin and Cash would be present. But this time there was a bigger draw to the interviews.

Where had the amnesiac girl came from?

Bets were made all across the board as to her origin... and no money was lost nor won as the answer was never able to be worked out. It was truly a mystery for the ages. Hunger Games historians would be known to occasionally check into therapy, driven mad by the unsolvable mystery of this girl who just turned up one day.

Fir hardly realised she was at the centre of one of the greatest mysteries of Panem, instead treating the interview like she was in a comedy club. It was here that the trend for interviews to often have something of a genuinely comedic nature, whether minor or major, was first seen.

It was also the reason why puns were outlawed within the Capitol until the time of the fourteenth Games.

* * *

"Well this sucks," were Fir's first words as she and the other twenty three tributes were launched into the arena that year.

In those early years of the Hunger Games it was a common sight to see an all new arena terrain in most years. After all, there was a first time for everything and most firsts happened to occur towards the start than the end. It happened to be the Ninth Hunger Games that marked the debut of a ruined city, a terrain that tended to be hit or miss among the diehard Hunger Games fans within the Capitol.

It was a commonly agreed opinion that the first of the ruined city arenas, rather ironically when one thought about it, managed to stand the test of time. The cameras made sure to pick up the terror of many tributes, per the norm, but also got some great shots of the arenas 'must see' locations. The large buildings with flat rooftops, a massive crater with rats scurrying around within, an old metal bridge over a filthy river, shops that looked as though they had been hit by some kind of bomb blast, a tireyard that was already ablaze... as the amnesiac from Seven had said for the nation, it sucked to be in a place like that.

What also sucked that year, in the opinions of both the dead tributes and the big fans, was the selection of gear at the Cornucopia. Food and water were plentiful per the general norm, but this marked the first of four times where the Cornucopia had only a single kind of weapon supplied.

Bows and arrows.

The idea had been to try and replicate the utter mayhem of the first ever bloodbath, but also not give the tributes weaponry that was overly simple and deadly such as a crossbow. Bows and arrows were seen as the fair middle ground and the Gamemakers had assured Orion that he would be quite pleased.

In practise, however, the idea sucked.

Even the Careers that year did not have much skill when it came to using a bow and arrow which left them briefly stumped on what to do. By the time several seconds later that they decided to just run in and get shooting as best as they could several Outliers had already ran in, grabbed supplies and made a fast getaway. That, or made a kill as evidenced by the bodies of the unlucky boys from Six and Twelve upon the ground.

Their lack of prowess with this overly specific weapon and the general trend of most Outliers of this day and age not being particularly inclined to master weapons ended the bloodbath with a mere six deaths. As three of the Careers chased after the last few Outliers still hanging around Cash made the attempt to attack Fir, the cheeky girl from Seven having been hiding in the Cornucopia like her Mentor Pliny years prior, already loaded up with food, water and a bow with arrows.

Unlike Pliny, she wanted to explore the sucky city.

Cash was useless with a bow, but she did have fists and the sheer nerve to beat a tribute to death with her bare hands. She tackled Fir as soon as she ran out of the golden horn.

Fir had a peacekeeper teach her how to wrestle and that was why, after half a minute of struggling and kicking with her foe on the ground Fir was running away from the Cornucopia while Cash was left shrieking from the arrow jammed through her hand.

"I gotta _hand_ it to you, that looks painful!" Fir added, making sure to cheekily stick her tongue out.

Both the Capitol and the Districts groaned over that particular pun.

* * *

The small Bloodbath meant that this year the Games were particularly long. Indeed, this year set a record for the longest Hunger Games that would only ever be bested once. Due to a combination of the Outliers managing to grab proper supplies at the start, the Careers being inept with the weapons provided, the relatively benign weather conditions and the surplus of hiding places it ended up dragging the Games out to a total length of twenty nine days.

While the Careers had their work truly cut out for them in trying to locate where everybody was hiding, and try to master the weapons they were stuck with, Fir had scattered away like the other Outliers had in search of a good place to hide.

"Come on," Fir told herself. "What would Montgomery do..."

Figuring that Montgomery would decide 'fuck this' and go get a drink Fir struck out to find the biggest bar in the city. It turned out to be an old place known as the Salty Spitoon where she hunkered down for the first night in the arena.

Having seen a stage set up in the bar she knew exactly what she was going to do the next day.

* * *

Every so often a tribute tries a strategy that, while silly at face value, actually makes perfect sense with the context of the Games they were in. With the sheer length of the Ninth Hunger Games Fir's plan was nothing short of somewhat brilliant. She set down several nasty traps around the bar she was in, got on the stage and – after making sure all of the cameras built into the bar were facing her – began to tell jokes.

Fir told jokes on that stage for hours at a time each day, stopping only to use the bathroom in the bar or to eat and drink. With the very slow pace of the Games that year, with only a single post-bloodbath death by the fourth day, the spoiled Capitolites were began to pout and huff over the lack of action going on. As luck would have it for both them and Fir, they found Fir's comedy routine to be the perfect way to fill the void. The puns could be a bit groan inducing, but most of her jokes were hits and her juggling never failed to impress.

With a week having passed and fifteen tributes still being alive the Head Gamemaker Casperous is in danger of a particularly painful hanging due to the dullness of the Games. It becomes in his best interests to leave Fir alone as she, while not fighting, is at least keeping the crowd satiated for the time being.

It's not until the tenth day when, as she makes up various silly theorises as to her origin prior to her amnesia, that Fir finally sees another tribute. It takes her a moment to even realise the person entering the bar is a tribute, having rather forgotten her situation ever since evading Cash back on day one's bloodbath.

"Welcome to the comedy club!" Fir says, friendly as usual.

The tribute, Ferrari from Six, isn't in the mood for jokes. She feels making a kill might increase her chances of victory and at least give her access to the supplies Fir has on stage behind her and thus makes a charge.

"Only staff and slash or performers are allowed on the stage!" Fir exclaims, teasingly.

Ferrari runs into one of the traps Fir had the foresight to set up, dying with a faceful of numerous glass shards. Neither pretty nor quick. Fir lost her smile for the first time, looking sick as she carefully laid Ferrari's body outside.

"Looks like Ferrari broke down folks," Fir remarks as she heads back inside. "She might need a mechanic from the hovercraft, guys!"

Once again, the Capitol and the Districts all groan. Fir tries her best to hide her tears.

* * *

On the fifteenth day eleven tributes are still roaming the city and even Fir is starting to feel like she's running out of jokes at this point. There are only so many tree puns she can make before even she starts to groan, after all.

"I don't suppose anybody has any requests?" Fir asks while taking a food and water break. "Just saying, but I'd appreciate a suggestion of a topic to cover next."

It becomes something of a bidding war to be the first person to send down a parachute to Fir's hideout. Amazingly, it ends up costing over thirty thousand caps to send down a sheet of paper with a single word printed upon it.

'Politics'

Now, in a small dose and especially during a rather boring Hunger Games the Capitolites would be fine hearing a bit of teasing and taunting of their city. Well, mockery of the higher ups who were not themselves at any rate. That's why for over three hours they contently listened to Fir's goofy political comedy, having a good chuckle over her rather oddball worldview on the nature of dictatorships, tyranny and the way it was illegal for anybody to get crushed by a tree during work in Seven, lest they pay a fine.

It turns out, though, that making jokes about the Second Hunger Games involving President Orion is just too damn far. Fir only needs to start teasing and giggling over how much money Orion is said to have lost on bets that year for the laughter in the Districts to start up all over again.

About half a minute later the building begins to come down per the order of the President.

Fir makes it out – though the girl from Eight who had been sneaking into the back of the building during the last joke is not quite so lucky, her cannon firing – and knows that her reprieve is over. She's lost her shelter, much of her supplies, her comedy routine's stage and worst of all she's out in the open where nine other tributes could find her.

"Gee, tough crowd," Fir says, shaking her head.

* * *

More inactivity sets in over the next few days until by day twenty where nine tributes are still alive it is decided enough is enough and a Feast is called. Food, water and a sword are promised. The lack of ability the tributes have with using bows and arrows is enough for the one weapon only rule to be bended a bit.

Sure enough, at the sunrise of the following morning a table rises from in front of the Cornucopia with baskets of bread, bowls of warm soup, plenty of bottles filled with crystal clear water... and, most notably, a curved sword. A weapon sure to put some chaos into the games and speed things up a bit.

The problem however is that the Career pack had been hunting at the far East of the arena and had to make a long journey back through the wrecked streets, their absence by the horn of plenty recently meant the Outliers could just run in and grab what they needed and thus four of them do not bother to show up and risk harm.

Fir, meanwhile, ruins the plan entirely by waiting inside a chest within the silver horn throughout the night. As soon as the table rises she runs out, grabs a basket of bread and the sword, and then flees the area. It's only ten minutes later that she tosses the sword away down a manhole cover, never to be seen again. If she cannot properly use it, why should anyone else get the chance?

When the Careers arrive and see the clear lack of any kind of sword a fight breaks out, one without any direct hits from the arrows until good 'ol fisticuffs are used. The Ones go to the left with bruises and the Twos go to the right with cuts. Either way the pack has been split.

* * *

Newly created Dog Mutts - known to some as Groaners - are unleashed on the twenty third day to try and cause some action, but the resulting issue is that the tributes simply take shelter in the buildings and barricade the doors to stay safe. The buildings can be made to fall apart, of course, but when all of the tributes are lurking on the rooftops this option is suspended as it seems too much like a blatant execution and, worst of all, rigging.

So, the Gamemakers wait.

And wait.

And wait.

They wait until the twenty fifth day where one girl dies of thirst and, after a half-hearted shoot-out over three hours Fir manages to snipe the boy from Two. The fact she is among the only tributes showing any initiative keeps her popular and thusly safe from Gamemaker interference. They even tolerate the awful animal puns she makes during the night to pass the time.

* * *

The twins from One are able to dispatch their once-ally from Two due to having a number advantage on the twenty seventh day, only because the Gamemakers called a second Feast, one that the now hungry and thirsty tributes risked attending. The action is loved by the Capitol, but comes too late to really have a chance of saving the Games from being a flop.

Especially as Fir stole the sword again, this time using it for some rather suggestive innuendo.

"I swear I'm not compensating for anything," Fir says, giggling immaturely as she holds the sword between her thighs.

By nightfall only four tributes remain: Coin, Cash, Fir and a particularly burly field hand from District Nine by the name of Barley.

Mizar, watching from the mentor room, dared to think for a moment that he may even have a Victor.

Peridot was satisfied her District seemed set to win, but confessed it was mainly for the sake of One as a whole and that she honestly did not care if another Noble House were to be knocked down a peg.

Pliny just quietly giggled in her slumber, memories of Fir's puns having filled up her dreams that night.

* * *

During the night rain began to fall heavily on the arena, the tributes gradually getting led in the direction of a large bridge for the finale. Fir makes it there first, mainly as the Ones find Barley. He puts up a grand fight and swiftly dispatches Cash in short order. Only Two minutes and forty seven seconds after the pretty girl from One slumps onto the sidewalk he himself is stabbed between the eyes by an arrow from Coin. The boy is tired, but the fury over his twin's death powers him on to the final fight.

"Gonna restore family honour," he mutters as he jogs along through the rain. "Gonna make the Gaudys get knocked down again."

He reaches the bridge expecting to be either the first one there or see his last opponent quaking in fear of the looming battle. The Capitolites expect much the same, eager for the vicious fight between the two most popular tributes of the year.

All are surprised when Fir steps out lacking any fear at all, standings upon a wrecked car and begins to crack jokes about her opponent.

"Did you hear why Coin got his name? He's only worth loose change!"

"Coins are meant to be round, but if you ask me Coin over there is a bit of a square!"

"Coin has neither a head nor a tail if you get what I mean!"

With a roar of fury Coin charges towards Fir, an arrow in each hand and murder written within his eyes.

It's not even a minute later that he is caught in a length of cable that Fir set up shortly after she arrived at the bridge. Straining, she drags him over to the edge of the bridge and tosses him over the side to the dirty water below.

"Water way to go!" Fir jokes, hiding the pain she feels inside with ease.

The nation is still groaning from the pun even as Fir boards the hovercraft out of the arena.

* * *

One is furious, Seven is absolutely delighted, the Capitol are pleased that a tribute who actually did something in the dull games won and Orion is just glad Fir isn't quite as bad as Pliny.

The ministers are confused.

There's no record of this girl having ever existed. No birth record, no family that stepped forth after seeing her on TV, no families known to be missing a child her age, no matches to the blood samples taken from newborns... nothing. It's like she just appeared out of thin air, not even being from Panem.

Plenty of time and effort is put into working out where Fir Buzz actually came from, but in the end the case is deemed impossible to solve and closed forever. Even after the Mockingjay Rebellion years later, after the day where Fir passed on with a smile on her face, nobody is any closer to working out where she came from.

Fir herself, of course, never cared for the answer. She went home as a beloved entertainer and became formally adopted by Montgomery, so what did it matter?

...Of course, every mystery has an answer, even a mystery as tough to crack as this one. Nobody worked out how to solve it, of course, but the puzzle pieces were always there waiting for eternity to be found.

Nobody ever checked the area of Seven thirty miles East of where Fir had been found.

Nobody ever discovered the nightlock poisoned bodies of a man and woman within a fairly homely and nicely furnished cave, one fit for habitat.

Nobody ever checked the bag at the back of the cave that contained a journal.

Nobody read the journal and saw the stories within of a family of entertainers who had taken the chance to leave District Thirteen's terrible living conditions and live a life of nomads with their little girl Atom Madoka.

Nobody ever knew that a single tribute from District Thirteen had entered the Hunger Games and lived to tell the tale.

* * *

"Maybe we could ask Johanna about her. Perhaps she knows something," Peeta suggested as the respectful silence ended.

"She may. Or maybe the life of Fir is lost to time," Katniss said as he and Peeta began to move on. "Unless we were to watch her Games? I'd rather not."

"Same here," Peeta said, flinching. "I may be curious, but I'm not _that_ curious."

The couple walked on and soon enough came to the face of the tenth Victor imprinted upon the sidewalk. The short haired young woman who looked back at them was deadly serious, icy cold and perhaps a bit proud as well.

"Olga Machete," Peeta read. "Apparently she was a bit of a patriot?"

"If what little I know is right then patriot is a vast understatement," Katniss said, lightly shaking her head.

* * *

Did you see that twist coming? A Victor from Seven, but technically speaking the sole Victor of District Thirteen as well! I do like to be creative after all, and I'd say an amnesiac jokester from D13 hasn't been done before. If it has, feel free to tell me how very wrong I am. Hope you guys liked this one. Stay tuned for more!

* * *

 **Stats**

 **District 1:** Peridot Gaudy (8th Games)

 **District 2:** Baron Overwhill (4th Games), Runa Peace (7th Games)

 **District 3:** Honorius Perthshire (5th Games)

 **District 4:** Museida Selkirk (3rd Games)

 **District 5:** N/A

 **District 6:** N/A

 **District 7:** Pliny Aransio (2nd Games), Fir Buzz (9th Games)

 **District 8:** N/A

 **District 9:** Mizar Aldjoy (1st Games)

 **District 10:** N/A

 **District 11:** N/A

 **District 12:** Duke Saint-Rose (6th Games)


	11. Olga Machete

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Hunger Games. They belong to Suzanne Collins.

 **Note:** Whoa, already we've reached the end of the first decade of the Hunger Games. Certainly been an interesting ride so far, I would say. Of course, there's no rest for the wicked and we have quite a lot of time left until we reach the 73rd Games in over sixty years in-story. Only fitting, I feel, that we end off the first decade of the Games with a bang. Thus, here's Olga!

* * *

"She was pro-Capitol, right?" Peeta asked, looking down at Olga's imprinted face upon the sidewalk. "Kind of like most Career Victors over the years?"

"That's what I've heard," Katniss replied, her eyes a little bit icy. "So say the books, she considered herself to be more Capitol than District. Apparently her father had a hand in the Hunger Games existing."

"You sure?" Peeta asked, curious. "I always, well, thought that President Orion put them in place. They were always credited as his idea."

"Yeah, true. But they say Olga's father helped him brainstorm ideas which led to those terrible Games," Katniss replies, sighing. She closed her eyes, weary. "He was the Head Peacekeeper in Two back when the first rebellion ended. You can see how that would have effected Olga."

"I can imagine it, sure," Peeta said, frowning with unease. "Hmmm... highest kill count yet."

"They say she was screaming and roaring when she left the arena. She was furious," Katniss said, shaking her head. "Can't imagine why."

Peeta didn't respond, too overcome with a surge of anxiety to form any words.

* * *

 **10th Annual Hunger Games**

 **Name:** Olga Machete

 **Gender:** Female

 **District:** 2

 **Age:** 18

 **Kills:** 11

* * *

While every Hunger Games was seen as a reason for the Capitol to celebrate, the citizens deeming it as the happiest time of the year in nine out of ten cases, there were naturally bigger milestones that caused even more street parties and uproarious celebrations. Before anybody aside from Orion and his most trusted ministers became aware of what the Quarter Quells were and every twenty fifth year therefore becoming a huge spectacle, the first double digit Games had the Capitol in a state of celebration not seen since the first rebellion was defeated.

It was also a time of pride for District Two, the place that had the overall best track record in the Games thus far. While they currently tied with District Seven for Victors, it was a fact that their tributes were known for lasting longer which set them at an overall first place.

Naturally, as the Hunger Games became a grisly part of Panem culture and the fact they were there forever was being dismally accepted, each District was responding to the death tournament in different ways.

Many chose fear and despair, assuming they had a choice at all that is.

District Two chose to fight blood with blood. They would always send the absolute strongest that they had, without any exception. With this being double digits now and there existing a chance that Seven could overtake them Mr Overwhill was losing plenty of sleep doing his damnedest to work the cadets at the academy to the bone and ensure a Victor could be made of one of them.

"Unbelievable," he muttered, a hand over his face. He sighed, annoyed as he poured out a glass of fine wine. "Nine years already gone and all Two has to show for it are my whelp and that quarry rat."

It was true enough that Baron and Runa were powerful, popular Victors – their not so secret new relationship only further making them icons to the Capitol – but they had no fighting spirit anymore. They had no intent at all to kill again or encourage future tributes. Not in the way that Mr Overwhill needed.

It was clear as day; they were not that patriots that could represent the academy. They couldn't grant Mr Overwhill the power and wealth his greed desired, merely show that the training for the Games was a workable plan.

The ageing man peered out of the window in his office. Down on a bench in the courtyard of the academy – one constructed upon what had been a graveyard for rebel sympathisers – were the Two victors, quietly enjoying each other's company in the evening sunshine. Mr Overwhill scoffed, turning away. He'd never agreed with his son's choice to be with a quarry rat, even if she was a Victor.

For some time he sat in his office, simply looking over the statistic sheets of the twelve cadets who were deemed worthy of being tributes for the tenth Games. It was a strong enough pool of candidates, but the annoying trend was all of them having either personal dreams full of greed or simply wanting a ticket to the easy life. He narrowed the pool down to two boys and two girls in mere moments, but he still wasn't happy.

He needed a patriot, one happy and willing to serve two, the Capitol and their President.

It was around two hours later that his secretary informed him that Captain Machete, the Head Peacekeeper of Two, was waiting to speak to him. The Captain was not the sort of man a person without suicidal tendencies would turn down a meeting with, so Mr Overwhill readied himself for whatever the fearsome man wanted.

The monster of a man entered and was tailed obediently by a muscular, short haired women. She saluted without needing to be prompted, a firm look in her eyes.

For a while Mr Overwhill and Captain Machete exchanged pleasantries and simple talk of the state of Two – they'd battled in the same platoon in the Dark Days, so they had no issues getting right into talking – but eventually Captain Machete got to the real point of his visit.

"I want my daughter in the Hunger Games this year," said the intimidating man. "She'll ensure a victory for us."

"She hasn't been instated into the academy," Mr Overwhill said, calmly.

"That means nothing," Captain Machete said, shrugging. "She's far and away the strongest woman of reaping age we have right now. I've trained her myself since she could walk, first for fighting rebels and now for the Games."

Mr Overwhill listened as Captain Machete listed the skills of his daughter. Swordplay, knife fighting, battle axes, hand to hand combat, parkour, acrobatics... the man had to admit, she seemed like a dream tribute. An easy win.

"Is she loyal to Panem? To our District? To the Capitol and President Orion?" Mr Overwhill asked, firm.

"She's just like me," Captain Machete said, confidently. "Olga, tell him."

Olga snapped a firm salute, her piercing gaze betraying no emotion whatsoever.

"Sir! I, Olga Mars Machete, hereby swear my life to service as a tribute. I'll live for Panem, die for Panem and do all that I can to serve Panem," Olga said, cold as ice. "I will kill one tribute per District, ours included by the end, for none are above the law of Panem and the Capitol. All must serve and bend the knee, living, working and dying as one for the good of the nation. Sir, I truly tell you I shall be the Victor or die proudly in my quest to accomplish this honour."

Olga held her salute, rigid as a statue, until Captain Machete told her to relax. As she went back to a respectful silence the Captain repeated his request, or demand more specifically, for his daughter to be a tribute.

Mr Overwhill smirked, knowing he had found the patriot he was looking for.

Five minutes later Captain Machete and Olga left the office, confirmation having been given that Olga was to be the female tribute. With a content smirk on his face Mr Overwhill returned to looking over the remaining candidates for the male tribute to enter the Games alongside Olga.

Wanting his precious patriot to win he ended up picking Mercury, the weaker of the remaining two candidates.

* * *

The tenth reaping seemed grander in comparison to all that had come prior. More cheering, more decorations, more District pride going on. Having a pair of Volunteers at the ready, nobody had any reason to fear anything and so were content to enjoy the fair weathered day.

Even the Peacekeepers, behind their face concealing helmets, were smiling as well. They knew that Two never caused trouble, so why not relax just a bit?

Sure enough the reaping was, once again, a mere formality as Mercury and Olga took to the stage. Mercury basked in the cheers and the attention, while Olga kept a rigid stance and saluted the crowd. She had no room for silliness nor distractions, not when she was ready to begin serving Panem just as a proper patriot should.

She only had one visitor in the hour when they were permitted, Captain Machete. He was there for all of fifteen seconds, asking a question and expecting a quick answer.

"Are you ready to give all that you have and all that you are for the nation?"

"Yes, sir."

* * *

The parade hadn't gone any differently the tenth time around other than louder cheers and jeers than the norm, but the training centre was where things began to play out under Olga's firm clutch. One cursory glance at her competition while listening to the Head Trainer explain the rules, what few there were, told her all that she needed to know.

There was almost no real competition.

Aside two reasonable fighters from District One and cocky Mercury it seemed to Olga that it was a rather weak batch this year. A limping boy from Three, two crying children from five, an outright short fused rebel from Six, a dwarf girl from Seven all the way up to a starving pair from Twelve. It was a disgrace in her eyes, the blatant lack of patriotism or spirit for the most important pageant of the year.

But, Olga did respect strength and thus informed her allies that the sailors from Four would be joining their alliance.

"Why?" Mercury had asked, midway through eating a chicken wing at lunch after the morning of training.

"They are strong. Let the weak fall first," Olga said, firm. "Show a little more spirit Mercury."

"I'm all for it," Prince from One said. "Peridot told us that Four tends to have decent tributes, so we may as well keep them around and benefit from them."

"And then cut their throats when they least expect it," Bauble from One added. "Perfect."

"Don't assume anything, that's foolish," Olga said, firm as always. "Anyway, it's the end of lunch. Join me in singing the national anthem."

Olga was annoyed when nobody joined her, but she cared little. If she was the only tribute willing to show some Panem pride then so be it. Win or lose, she knew that she was doing things the right way.

Even so, the sheer disrespect of some of the tributes was disheartening to say the least. Silence during anthem time was one thing – for all Olga knew, some of the Outliers may have been too detached from the Capitol to know how to speak properly – but seeing the boy from Six and the girl from Seven daring to make rude gestures and pull faces had Olga fuming.

They would have to be educated, and educated fast before they were sacrificed for the prosperity of the future.

* * *

"Blessed be I, my family and my deeds on this Capitol guided day," Olga said, the first words she spoke that day. Same as every day for as long as she could remember.

The day was not a blessed one. The record books would go on to show that this was the first time a fight had broken out in the training centre. It was one thing for a shouting match to begin, something the Gamemakers would privately admit to enjoying, but a fist fight was something else entirely.

It all started when, after making mincemeat of the dummies at the sword training station, Olga had firmly lectured the six boy and seven girl on their disrespectful behaviour. She'd pressed to them that, like it or not, they were in the most vital of pageants and would need to straighten out their attitudes. The Capitol were firm and fair, keeping them from a serious war. It was plain as day and Olga demanded an apology on behalf of their dear leaders.

"No," the six boy, Chev, said with a shrug.

"What he said," the seven girl, Fernie, added.

"...What?" Olga asked, stunned.

"I'm not apologising because I am not sorry," Chev said, rolling his eyes. "Why should I be a puppet like you and glorify people who make us die and have to steal from the Districts to have any hope of surviving?"

"Because the Capitol guide us. Love, protect and feed us," Olga said, firm. "My father saw things in the Dark Days you'd never want to see. The Capitol prevents a repeat of the mindless violence."

"This all seems mindless," Fernie said, gesturing around the room. "Kids killing kids. That's sadism."

"No. It's sacrifice for the future," Olga said, at this point rather passionate and pissed off that her long drilled in ideals were simply not being taken on board.

One moment Chev spat at Olga's feet, having heard enough out of her.

The next moment he lay on the ground with a black eye.

A moment afterwards Olga was led away for a 'time out' and a severe lecturing on conduct.

As angry as she was, seeing the six boy and seven girl shake hands made her feel a sense of satisfaction. At least they felt something for each other's Districts, even if they were two small parts of a greater system.

* * *

Having scored the first eleven ever recorded Olga had been the talk of the Capitol and everybody wanted to know about her story. The patriotic young women beamed with Panem pride on interview night, rising and singing the anthem as a showing of support for her country. The crowd loved it, and for once not so much attention was paid to District One's interviews.

"I'll own up, I got into a fight with a certain somebody who refused to show a little respect for the Capitol," Olga had told Mortimer, solemn. "I acted badly, but only for the sake of standing up for the powers that be whom I forever swear by."

"Well, we all appreciate it Olga," Mortimer said, delighted by the story. "Besides victory, what brings you here to the Games on this fine anniversary?"

Olga filled up her remaining two minutes with a speech that would be broadcast at both the academy in Two and on Capitol television for many, many years to come. A speech about the price of freedom and forgiveness, about how during the Dark Days it had been Capitol Peacekeepers who rescued her when her house set on fire, about how having loyal and strong tributes in Two meant nobody need face the arena if they didn't truly feel ready to serve Panem.

Olga rose and accepted the uproarious applause with a proud salute, a single prideful tear shed from the glory of the moment.

Back in Two it was a perfect evening for Mr Overwhill and Captain Machete, the former eager to see his patriot victor line his pockets with cash and the latter proud of his daughter's obedient, excellent service.

* * *

That year the tributes found themselves in what, at least for a few years, was the grossest arena that had ever been seen. It was a grotesque swamp full of gnarled trees, sloppy mud, murky water and a terribly foul odour. The Cornucopia lay on a flat dirt island in front of the semi circle of pedestals, a small sea of swamp water between it and the tributes.

By the time the countdown reached fifty Olga had already picked out her targets for the imminent bloodbath.

By the time it reached forty she stood at the ready, a proud look on her face as she prepared to serve her nation.

By the time it reached one Olga was ready to win the Hunger Games.

All of the tributes ran into the opening melee of that year, but only twenty one actually reached the Cornucopia at all. Due to the thick mud and entangling weeds the boys from Three, Ten and Twelve all ended up stuck on their fronts beneath the water, their screams quite literally drowned out and unheard by the rest.

Olga reached the centre island first, ahead of even her experienced swimmer allies Tug and Reef. As soon as she gripped hold of a large sword set into a sheath in the centre of the scattered supplies and shouted out a line from the anthem, she quickly got stuck in.

It became clear very quickly that Olga was sticking to her vow to kill one tribute from every District. The girls from Three, Ten and Twelve were the first ones cut down, vicious and fast before anybody else could lay a claim to them and from that point onwards Olga was like a blur around the battlefield at the Cornucopia, grabbing up supplies and chasing down anybody who was from a District she'd not yet landed a kill against. One, Two and Four were spared for now, but even the strong and loyal would have a price to pay soon enough. Loyalty delayed punishment, but did not spare them from it.

As was becoming the basic trend every year, the strong remained at the Cornucopia and the scared, weaker Outliers scattered off into the swamp. The five of the pack who still lived, Tug no longer among them, watched as the last of the Outliers ran off into the swamp.

Olga spotted the boy from five decapitated on the ground – handiwork of Mercury – and then saw the girl from five limping away into the swamp not far from them.

"She won't get far," Reef remarked, wiping blood off of her harpoon.

"Indeed not," Olga agreed. "District Five is not innocent. That one is _mine_."

One moment Olga grabbed the harpoon off of Reef and took careful aim.

The next moment the harpoon hurtled through the air until it hit the Five girl in the back and came out through her chest, killing her instantly.

Thirteen cannons boomed after the Five girl sank under the swamp water. Olga held a salute for the booming of the cannons and, as soon as the last one fired, marched into the swamp water.

"Where are you going?" Mercury asked. "We should gear up and take a break."

"Who would you be to keep the Capitol waiting?" Olga asked, frowning. "I'm just making things a bit easier for them."

The others of the Pack watched as, over the next fifteen minutes, Olga dragged several bodies out from the swamp water and laid them down on the shore. Following that she dragged over the bodies that had been slain around the golden horn and laid them all out in a line. District order with the boy preceding the girl.

The nation could only watch, whether in awe or raw despair, as Olga paced down the line of fallen tributes and read out their crimes for all to hear.

"In the Dark Days numerous factories were detonated by those in Three, leaving innocents slain and all the technology blessed upon both Capitol and District lost to time. This is where rebellion led them."

"In the Dark Days those in Four crashed ships into the vessels of innocents, sinking thousands and wasting untold magnitudes of resources. They drowned in violence and hatred, not peace or prosperity. This is where rebellion led them."

"In the Dark Days power plants in Five had their cores overloaded in suicide bombings that led to explosions, pollution, orphans and death. Power is used to charge up our lives, not to extinguish them. This is where rebellion led them."

"In the Dark Days many fabric factories in Eight were blown up and set ablaze. Resources were stolen, fashioned into ropes used to hang innocent soldiers who only wanted to prevent further bloodshed. The rebels only dressed themselves in blood. This is where rebellion led them."

"In the Dark Days grain fields in Nine were either set on fire or poisoned badly. Sometimes both. People were left starving on both sides, with nobody benefiting from such barbaric actions. Blood soaked into the soil. This is where rebellion led them."

"In the Dark Days animals in Ten were slaughtered needlessly, no humane methods even considered. Others were injected with all manner of nasty formulas and used as rampaging brutes to attack things rebels were too cowardly to do themselves. This is where rebellion led them."

"In the Dark Days those in Twelve collapsed the coal mines to try and starve the Capitol of its power, feeling like they could survive cold winters without guidance and protection. They were wrong, as they froze and starved through their own selfishness. This is where rebellion led them."

By the time the hovercraft came to collect the corpses the nation was split in their opinion on the patriot girl from Two. Only two feelings were felt from the population as she led her alliance out into the murky swamp in search of the remaining Outliers.

Pure admiration from the Capitol for this delightful young lady.

Extreme hatred from the Outlying Districts for this smug, nasty patriot.

* * *

Olga meant it when she said that she would kill one person from each District. It led to a scene that would almost always be on Top 100 Craziest Games Moments countdowns over the years.

Till, a small boy from Eleven, had been chased for over a mile by a slow and snarling crocodile. It had already devoured Sunflower and seemed like it would stop at nothing to make him the second meal of its day.

One moment Till was bracing himself for the most agonizing of bites.

The next moment Olga had leapt in out of nowhere, her alliance trailing, and was smashing the crocodile to death with the handle of her sword. The beast was helpless as its scaly head was brained into a red, ugly pulp.

"Get away from him!" Olga snarled. "Don't you dare do it!"

Till felt like, in that moment, miracles were real as the crocodile was dispatched. He was about to thank his savoir for her help and pledge loyalty to her alliance, but he was interrupted.

As in, interrupted by his head being sliced clean off by Olga's sword.

"No mutt is gonna steal my objective away from me," Olga muttered, looking at the dead mutt in disgust. "In the Dark Days many a cowardly attempt at terrorism came from Eleven. Crops were poisoned and shipped off to the Capitol. Food was hoarded by greedy rebels. Irrigation pumps were blown up with crude explosives. This is where rebellion led them."

* * *

No matter how well a Career pack might work together, sooner or later the time will come for the pack to break when the pressure simply gets to be too much. Such a thing happened on the fourth day in the vile swampland when the pair from One decided that their allies were no longer particularly useful to them.

Of course, a common trait of Careers is arrogance and that extends to their view on their allies. The Ones believed that together they would easily be able to take out Olga.

They believed wrong as Olga was able to slice Prince across the gut before he could do anymore than lay a cut into her arm. He slumped over into the swamp water to drown right as two things happened.

First was that, with Prince's death, Olga had killed a tribute from all Districts aside from Two, Four, Six and Seven.

Second was that, before Olga could kill Bauble, the sly One girl had stabbed Olga in the arm with a poisoned dart.

Mercury was quick to dispatch Bauble, having a sense of District pride and loyalty to a lesser degree than Olga, but the poison was already flowing through Olga's veins. She kneeled over and slumped against a gnarled tree growing out of the rancid swamp water.

"What do we do?" Reef asked, having been standing back throughout the entire attempted betrayal. "Let her die? Take her back to the Cornucopia?"

"May have to be the former," Mercury said, grim. "That poison looked nasty. I'd give her an hour, maybe two. Cornucopia is too far away."

Her allies left her, albeit with Mercury promising a win for Two this year, and Olga was only able to clutch at her searing, sickly wound as she knelt in the filth of the arena.

It was a common tactic of the Gamemakers to zoom in the cameras on a dying tribute. It broadcast their agony and despair for the nation, a duel move to entertain the Capitol and terrify the Districts.

The cameras zoomed in close enough to hear Olga request help. Between whispering that the illegal supplying of gold and other finances to the rebels years ago led the Ones to their deaths the plea for help was clear.

"Please," Olga whispered, keeping a tight hold on her wound. "I can't die yet... not done serving the Capitol... not done my duty for Panem... please, more time..."

Her patriotism and pride in serving the Capitol had accumulated a fortune of sponsor funding, unused until now due to her sheer competence in the arena. Thus, all it took was Runa to receive a phone call from Captain Machete in the mentor viewing room and select to buy an antidote.

It was sent down within a minute of being bought. Olga's hand shook madly from the poison, but years of rigid and firm training allowed her to properly jam the needle into her arm. It was to the relief of the Capitol and the disgust of the Outliers that her vitals swiftly began to stabilise.

"Thanks and glory be to the Capitol. With honour I shall serve the Capitol and Two," Olga said as she forced herself to her feet, taking a few practise steps to balance herself. "The hunt isn't over yet. Four Districts still to pay their due... can't rest... must hunt..."

And hunt she did, as later that same rancid night Olga caught up with the girl from Seven. It was no contest at all and with the boom of a cannon that followed Fernie being impaled upon Olga's sword the chances of Seven getting their third victor were dead.

"In the Dark Days forests in Seven were set ablaze and axes were struck into uncountable numbers of skulls, adult and child alike. The peaceful, productive forests become slaughter sites for senseless death. This is where rebellion led them."

* * *

With the harshness of the swamp arena and how, at that point in time, even the wiliest of Outliers would have trouble surviving in such a place it was not a huge shock when only four were left on the sixth day of the Games. Olga made it become a mere two left once she came across her former allies. Ignoring their suggestion of hunting the last Outlier first she had made short work of them. Reef lay sprawled in her own blood, the swamp water becoming a very ugly crimson, while Mercury lay dying upon his back on a damp bank.

"Win it... for Two..." he wheezed, some sense of being impressed in his voice.

"I will. You fought valiantly," Olga said, giving a firm nod to mercy before she bought down the sword.

For a few moments Olga was silent, content to just catch her breath for the time being. But soon, she laid out the bodies of her fallen allies neatly and stood before them.

"In the Dark Days even District Two was not innocent. Brother turned on brother, sister on sister and many fell in the quarries that were made to collapse. They died alone in the dirt like animals. Even the humblest of blacksmiths were known to disrupt the stable peace by making swords and handing them out to civilians. This is where rebellion led them."

Counting down on her fingers Olga nodded to herself, satisfied. All that remained of her once varied array of opponents was Chev, the loud mouth from Six. Olga set off hunting right away, intent on achieving victory and keeping her vow for one kill per District.

"Blessed be, merciful Capitol, for a showdown worthy of the milestone of the Tenth Games is looming near," Olga promised, keeping her sword gripped tightly in hand.

Olga hunted long throughout the night, as if playing the most grisly game of hide and seek. As the sixth day became the seventh, Chev proved to be illusive and rather hard to find. Olga only became more excited, if in a rather subdued way, expecting one amazing showdown between loyalist and rebel.

"I'll find him soon," Olga vowed. "Until I do, keep sending the crocodiles. Mutts were certainly not innocent in the Dark Days, having caused all sorts of harm to both sides."

The Gamemakers obliged, gradually leading Olga towards the final battle while the patriot Career left a massive trail of blood and death crocodiles in her wake.

* * *

There was no grand finale.

Olga easily spotted Chev from a distance away. The sixteen year old had holed himself up in a tree in the middle of a particularly muddy area of the swamp, lacking any sort of weapon. He seemed resigned, not afraid, when Olga started the slow trek towards him.

"It ends here," Olga said, proud.

"Indeed it does," Chev replied, stretching out. "So, gonna lecture me for what my District did wrong in the Dark Days. Let me guess, if you kill me then you'll have gotten one from every District?"

"Correct," Olga confirmed, her eyes narrowing as she started to loom nearer and nearer. "How about you come down from that tree so we can settle this, man against woman? I'll give you a free punch, I swear it on the Capitol."

Chev seemed to consider this for a moment and made to move. The Capitol were eager for blood, ready for the much hyped grand finale.

"No," Chev said, a dry smirk crossing his face.

What happened next would go down as one of the most disappointing finales in the history of the Hunger Games. At least, in the eyes of the Capitol and any loyalists they had, that is. The talk was cut from the DVD release and only available from memory of the elderly, or from the highly risky black market.

"You expect me to take part in a gruesome gory battle just so you can satisfy your ego and your obsession with being a lapdog to those tyrants? No," Chev said, cold as ice. "Look at me, I can never beat you. I know I am about to die... but you're not killing me. They are not killing me. Neither are the crocs."

Chev took out a handful of poisonous berries he'd scavenged during the days of isolation and foulness.

"You're not killing anybody from Six, and I refuse to give anybody a 'grand finale," Chev said, smug. "Cheers. Maybe one day you'll get off your master's lap and see just how wrong this all is."

Olga screamed in fury, charging forth and throwing her sword to land the kill.

It was too late.

The sword missed, not being made for throwing, but by the time it had gotten anywhere near Chev he had already downed the berries and passed without pain. The cannon fired, the swamp as silent as the emptiness the Capitol audience felt.

The victory trumpets broke the silence, but Olga's screams of purest rage broke it a whole lot better. She was blue in the face and her lungs screamed to emptiness by the time she was on the hovercraft.

One more, just one more! She won, she served her nation and yet the rebel from Six had still managed to outwit her and the glorious Capitol.

It took three syringes of sedatives to calm Olga down enough for her to be given medical attention. Her temper had been that severe.

"That cheating, rebellious, no good, rotten, piece of rancid..." Olga trailed off into gibberish and then silence as she went under.

* * *

Olga was a popular Victor among the Capitol, all of them adoring her proud and patriotic attitude. She was seen as very much 'one of them'. Indeed, even Orion would freely admit that she was easily his favourite Victor so far without any contest at all.

But, the lack of a finale and being denied the chance to partake in the most vital of battles would follow her throughout her life. Many a day she would curse herself for not being faster or for not thinking to carry a crossbow with her. Alas, there was no longer anything she could do.

But, after being welcomed home like a hero, she was told that others could do plenty for her. Willingly obeying Captain Machete and Mr Overwhill, she became the poster girl for the Career Academy and all the rewards that it could bring to both the individual and the community at large.

Easy Games, fame, fortune, no kids from Two dying like the terrified younger Outliers and much, more more. Many followed Olga's example and would volunteer over the years, proud to fight, serve and risk their lives for the immense rewards.

"...I never wanted this," Baron said, observing what Olga's influence was doing to his once peaceful District. "Never."

"With luck, they'll forget all about us," Runa said, holding Baron's hand. "She's the Victor they want, not us."

Olga would always impose the same advice year after year, whether as a speaker or in her eventual role as the Headmistress of the Academy.

"Go for Six first. Don't let those vermin get away. One inch can mean a mile," she would always tell them.

Olga, for many years, would think she had ensured nobody from Six would ever follow Chev's example and cause problems for the generous, all knowing Capitol. Indeed, they would die and die and die over and over again from the tributes she inspired and mentored.

At least... until the one time they didn't and a descendant of Chev's family would do exactly what she had fought to prevent. But, that's another story...

* * *

"Ten years of the Hunger Games... it seems like a massive milestone, but hardly anything compared to how long it went on for," Peeta said, slowly shaking his head. "Two hundred and thirty deaths by this point. It just... I guess... nevermind. There's no words for it."

"None except 'this is wrong'. Part of me wonders if the Games may have ended earlier if different people won than who did, but I try not to think about that," Katniss said, leading Peeta on. "It just drives me a bit mad."

"Ask what if too many times and it'll be all you can think about," Peeta said, slowly nodding. "...But, you know, I'm glad this woman won her Games. I mean, nothing against the innocent swho died, but... well, you can see what I mean."

Peeta pointed to the ground. On it was the relaxed, gently smiling face of a curly haired teenager with eyes full of life. It was Mags.

"I wish we'd gotten to know her better," Peeta said, a hand to his chin. "She really seemed like a sweet old lady. I;m glad she was on our side until..."

"...Until the end," Katniss finished, quietly. "I agree."

* * *

There we go, the tenth Victor on the list! Naturally, it can be safely assumed that Careers are pro-Capitol, at least far more often than an Outlier would be. So, I figured a patriot Career would be an interesting sort of character to follow, especially with the impact they have on D2 and, in a sense, D6. I figure that it'd take a bit of example for people to really start taking the Career idea seriously, so why not have the 'perfect patriot victor' kick things down the path that leads to people like Cato?

And now, we reach the first canon Victor, Mags! How will her Games unfold? Stay tuned to find out!

* * *

 **Stats**

 **District 1:** Peridot Gaudy (8th Games)

 **District 2:** Baron Overwhill (4th Games), Runa Peace (7th Games), Olga Machete (10th Games)

 **District 3:** Honorius Perthshire (5th Games)

 **District 4:** Museida Selkirk (3rd Games)

 **District 5:** N/A

 **District 6:** N/A

 **District 7:** Pliny Aransio (2nd Games), Fir Buzz (9th Games)

 **District 8:** N/A

 **District 9:** Mizar Aldjoy (1st Games)

 **District 10:** N/A

 **District 11:** N/A

 **District 12:** Duke Saint-Rose (6th Games)


	12. Mags Flanagan

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Hunger Games. They belong to Suzanne Collins.

 **Note:** Here we are, the start of the next decade of Hunger Games and the first canon Victor on the list. I've always had a soft spot for Mags and thought she was a really lovely character. I mean, volunteering to save Annie despite knowing she had zero chance to win? Sheer selflessness and bravery. What kind of arena could her tale have originated in? ...How about we find out? :D

* * *

Katniss looked down at Mags' portrait upon the sidewalk with a respectful sort of smile.

"A brave woman right to the end," Katniss said, impressed. "Volunteering, walking to that fog so we could all have a chance to keep going... rest in peace."

"Rest in peace," Peeta echoed, his smile soft and distant. "We only knew her for a while, but... I don't know, I wanted to know her better. I bet she was a wonderful person."

"Haymitch certainly had nothing bad to say about her, and you know he excels at saying bad things about people," Katniss said with a snicker. "Safe voyage Mags."

"Safe voyage," Peeta echoed once again.

* * *

 **11th Annual Hunger Games**

 **Name:** Mags Flanagan

 **Gender:** Female

 **District:** 4

 **Age:** 16

 **Kills:** 3

* * *

Museida was not a happy young man. He never had been and did not expect that he ever would be. Eight years on from his time in the arena and he still hadn't begun to feel like his old self, not even for a moment. The nightmares, the physically painful feelings of regret, the sound the girl from Two made when he'd accidentality crushed her beneath the shell of the hermit crab. It was all so raw and fresh. He had no delusions that it would be like this for the rest of his days.

The Capitol, in his opinion, had nothing but delusions. The idea that they were happy to be in the Games. The belief they loved their overlords. The opinion the Victors were more than happy to support the Games at each and every turn.

Perhaps the tenth Victor, that patriot freak whom Museida hated so very much. But besides her? None that he could think of, not even Baron and Runa. How ironic that the one who started the sick Career trend by accident had ended up as his best friend come Hunger Games season.

Museida would be content to just live alone in his house and never come out. Most of the year he could do so. But not during the summer when the next Hunger Games loomed near. As the sole Victor of District Four it fell to him to Mentor the next two corpses trying to avoid their fate.

That was why on a fine summer day he sat on the stage at the reaping ceremony, not bothering to hide the unpleasant sneer on his face. He barely gave a grunt of acknowledgement when his name was read out during the treaty of treason. The sooner the kids were reaped, the sooner he could start getting this over with for another year.

"Magnolia Flanagan," trilled out the Escort. Museida had never bother to remember the name of the man, preferring to just call him 'nimrod' in his mind.

The victor watched as a curly haired young women exited the sixteen year olds section and mounted the stage.

"My name is _Mags_ , get it right shiny," the girl huffed, giving the Escort a sulky sort of glare.

"Uh, of course... mags, then," the Escort said, stumbling over his words.

Museida snickered at the way the Escort stammered before moving over to the boy's reaping bowl.

"Marlin Pelleck!"

A bronze skinned boy walked out of the sixteen year olds section and took the stage in silence. He didn't bother to speak to the escort, merely flexing and growling for the camera.

Musieda just shook his head, wondering which of the two was gonna have their cannon fire first. After the way the patriot from Two had been inspiring her District, so said the news on his personal TV, it was a sure thing that Two was going to be on one hell of a power trip. They advantage was only going to get more and more outrageous as time went by.

"Unless I fuck it up for them real quick," Museida muttered to himself, hardly watching as his tributes shook hands. "They'll have to do."

Museida watched as the tributes were led into the Judgement Building. He didn't miss the way Mags sneakily pick pocketed several caps from one of the Peacekeepers, though the Peacekeeper himself sure did. Deep down, Museida had a gut feeling that Mags was who he should put his focus towards.

His gut feelings were never wrong.

* * *

"What can you do?" Museida asked them on the train. "I can't help you if you cannot even help yourselves. Skills, now."

"Brute strength, swimming, fishing, intimidation and harpoons," Marlin listed, counting down on his fingers.

"You're dead," Museida said, simply. He turned to Mags. "What can you do?"

"Hey, what the hell?" Marlin asked, his face reddening. "I just told you five damn good reasons I'm going to be the one who lives. How am I dead?"

"Obvious threat, no subtlety. With Olga's influence on Two, I guarantee they will be hunting down the strongest competition first," Museida said, shrugging. "That is, unless you can join them."

Marlin looked mixed between thoughtful and angry as he considered this. Museida then repeated his question to Mags.

"I can make fishing hooks, weave baskets, sneak around and... well, is making good soup a talent?" Mags asked, shrugging.

"Could be. Depends on the arena," Museida said. "Ok, I think there is a slight, I repeat _slight_ , chance that you may not be dead. But, it won't be easy."

"Is it ever easy?" Mags replied.

"Only if you sell out your soul and become a lapdog," Museida said, scoffing. "Do not do that. Ok, here's the plan."

Museida pointed to Marlin first, instructing him to try and join the inevitable 'Career killer' alliance and, if he failed, make sure he was fast enough to flee the Bloodbath. He then pointed to Mags and told her to hide beneath notice and learn to use some kind of a weapon.

The tributes both agreed, of course, but Museida had a feeling that they had plans of their own in mind.

* * *

The parade this year had a slight alteration done to it, that being that President Orion had given the Capitol citizens the all clear to toss in roses, coins and other such trinkets to show support to their favourite tributes. It was an unspoken rule that rocks were permitted, though not favoured.

It was little surprise that the chariots of One and Two had many roses and coins, while the chariots of the Districts that lacked any Victors at all had to make do with the odd half-wilted rose or a pebble.

"Too bad we can't throw anything at them," Mags muttered with a shake of her head. "Disgusting, right?"

"I don't see why we can't," Marlin replied. "I swear, if they throw anything at me that isn't shiny or ripe roses then-."

Marlin was cut off as a pebble came his way. He caught it as it bounced off his forehead, a bruise left in its place.

"Keepsake?" Mags asked, teasing.

"I'd rather return it to its owner," Marlin grunted.

With that, Marlin hurled the pebble at the audience with all the skill of a professional baseball pitcher. The sound of breaking teeth and screaming began to follow. By the time the parade ended and Orion gave his yearly brief speech the citizens were howling for Marlin's execution. Mags slowly inched away from the boy beside her, glancing around awkwardly.

"I do not know this person," she announced as the tributes were taken into the tribute building.

Museida was torn between shaking his head and laughing at what he had seen. One thing was certain, he had a pair with potential this year. And, looking at Olga fuming further down the line of Victors, one of his tributes was likely to be a target for the Twos.

Never anger a patriot, that was the best thing to keep in mind when dealing with Olga Machete.

* * *

Museida could not control what his tributes did during training, merely give them suggestions. While Mags and Marlin went down to learn the skills and, ideally, not end up with every other tribute wanting them to be the first two dead, he headed out to work on one of his least favourite parts of the job.

Finding Sponsors.

While it was typical for some wealthy Capitol citizens to approach the mentors and associated Hunger Games staff to send in supplies once the tributes were in the arena, the best odds of keeping a tribute alive came from finding sponsors before the Games actually began. That was why, on this summer afternoon, Museida found himself at the sponsor square.

He sighed as he stood before the golden gates that led into the rich, gaudy gardens that housed all of the Hunger Games fanatic meetings.

"Well, the hairs on the back of my neck are standing up and my palms just got sweaty... stupid Capitolites must be very nearby," Musieda sighed, sucking it up. "Do it for the tributes. Do it so you don't have to mentor two kids at once next year..."

Museida straightened out his jacket and entered the sponsor square. It wasn't more than a minute before the rich smell of perfume had him gagging and the sight of the pampered, prissy crowds had him wanting to stow away on the next train back to Four.

"Hey Museida," Mizar said, greeting his friend with a polite wave. "Here to get some sponsors for your pair?"

"Why else would I come here?" Museida replied, dull.

"Uh... yeah, good point and well made," Mizar said, awkward. "I'm not getting anywhere right now. Most of the sponsors are wanting to go for Two this year."

"Let me guess, Olga's work?" Museida asked, shaking his head.

"The Capitol loves a patriot," Mizar said with a helpless sort of shrug. "If you want my advice, put your stock into Mags. I don't think Marlin's stunt at the parade is gonna win him any favour."

"It won favour with me at least," Museida said, unable to hide a smirk. "Kid has guts."

"Yeah... guts these people want to see torn out," Mizar replied, shaking his head. "Well, good luck Museida. Too bad we can't sponsor our own tributes."

Mizar took his leave, trying to convince a rich couple to invest into the life of the baker boy and field-hand girl from Nine. Museida took one look around at all the spoiled citizens, another at the crowd surrounding the trio from Two and a last look at how all the other Victors, aside Peridot, were being ignored.

He left the sponsor square not long after that, a sly smirk on his face as he headed for the grand library of the Capitol.

By the time he got back to the tribute building it was almost time for the day of training to come to an end. He'd not sat down to read his book - The Hunger Games Rulebook for five minutes. After chuckling in triumph at what he saw Mags and Marlin returned, the former in relatively high spirits given the situation and the latter with a black eye.

"...You know, the Games don't start yet. Just felt you might appreciate the reminder," Museida said, shaking his head.

"The boy from Two said his mentor told him to," Marlin replied, heading for the fridge for some ice. "I'll get him back."

Marlin soon headed off to get some rest. That was when Museida sat Mags down, ready to tell her the good news. Or at least, some of it.

"I found you a sponsor," Museida said, a deep smirk crossing his face. "If you need anything in the arena, just name it or sketch it out in the dirt. A camera will see you no matter where you are. Your sponsors will make sure you get anything you need."

"You look like a guy who has a bit of a secret plan going on," Mags remarked, chuckling. "Almost makes you look like me."

"Secret plan?" Museida asked.

"I ain't telling. But let me tell you this, watch the soup," Mags said, stretching out. "So, any pointers for the interview?"

"Pointers?" Museida asked, curious.

"Yeah, how do I make 'em not hate me?" Mags asked. "Do they like 'rough and tumble' gals from Four? Because that's kind of what I am."

"Let me phrase it like this... do _not_ do what Marlin does," Museida said, a hint of pleading to his tone.

Mags considered this point for a moment.

"...How could I? I'm going on before him?" Mags said, teasing. "Shouldn't he just copy me?"

Museida groaned, knowing it was going to be a _long_ Games season this year.

* * *

As this was in the days prior to interview prep there were interviews every year that simply did not pass as what one may call 'successful' or even 'barely past salvageable'. However, some of what went down in this particular year caused every Games from the twelfth onwards to have the etiquette teaching.

It all started to go a bit wrong when it got to Mags.

"So, how do you feel about going into the arena?" Mortimer asked. "Scared? Spine tingled? Missing mommy?"

"You seem interested," Mags noted, a sly smirk upon her face. "It's almost like you want to be a tribute in my place. Wanna swap?"

While not a statement of outright rebellion, the way this made Mortimer stumble and lose his words for several long moments was not soon to be forgotten. Neither was Mags casually picking her nose at the two minute mark of the interview.

"What?" Mags asked, wiping the snot on her pants. "You guys drink that vomit cola stuff so you can keep eating. What's a nose nugget next to puddles of puke?"

The fact was that Mags had a solid point, but tributes were not meant to make points. That is, aside from sword-points stuck into the bodies of other tributes. It was deemed that she was just being cheeky, not rebellious per-say, and so she wasn't sentenced to a more likely death than she already was. All the same, Orion gave the order for future etiquette training and to keep an eye on the fisher girl.

It was Marlin's interview that really crossed the line though and led to every interview thereafter being held in a less open space with much beefier security. Before the days of a studio set, the grand park was where the 'magic' happened... and one could say Marlin said some magic words that night.

"I'm gonna hunt down some patriots in the arena," Marlin said, his arms crossed firmly. "I'm not scared of them, specifically. Any fears I have in the Games, it's not coming from what District Two has to offer. Whether it's a sword or my black eye."

"Isn't fighting illegal though?" Mortimer asked, enthralled.

"Only if you get caught, I guess," Marlin said, sitting up straighter. "Whatever, I'm ready to go any time you are. No sense worrying about the inevitable. I'm strong, I can win this thing."

"Can you though?" Mortimer continued. "You behaved pretty badly at the parade, Marlin. You hurt a poor, innocent man. Perhaps your odds may be better if you apologise?"

Marlin paused, considered this.

"I can't," Marlin said. "I'm not sorry and do you want me to be a liar _and_ a murderer?"

Mortimer should have just dropped it, but it was his job to grill the tributes and extract some facts. It was later agreed that he did his job far too well on the one occasion he should have just not done a thing.

"How can you not feel sorry?" Mortimer hissed.

"They threw the pebble at me and kidnapped me from Four to kill people. Why should I feel sorry?" Marlin asked, shrugging.

A riot followed that, cutting Marlin's interview short by half a minute. Several Capitol citizens ended up well and truly thumped during the interview and Marlin had to help throw one man off of the stage when Mortimer started to freak out and accidentally slapped the man.

"I don't know this boy!" Mags yelled from backstage, having stuck around to watch the carnage play out.

"Yes you do!" Marlin huffed.

"Uh, no, I am really sure that I don't!" Mags insisted.

After that fiasco Arendellian from Five was very much halfway to being an afterthought, if that. All that was on the minds of the citizens was anger and hurt feelings. Oh, and their sore bodies as well.

All that was on the mind of Orion, however, was how to dispose of the boy and that, next year, the interviews would be far stricter to prevent something like this from happening again. Already many ideas were bubbling in the tubby tyrant's mind and not a single one was nice

* * *

When Mags got her first look at the arena that year she couldn't help but laugh out in triumph. Marlin and, from his spot in the mentoring room, Museida were very much the same. If there was a year to belong to District Four then it was this one.

It was a ship yard.

The tributes were launched upon the top deck of the largest boat in the ship yard by the bay, the Rusty Bucket. The name was apt as it, and many of the other boats, were rather rusted and all kinds of ill maintained. Mags found herself wondering if this boat was soon to begin sinking.

She'd find out soon enough as the countdown reached zero sooner than later. As the gong sounded Mags did not bother sticking around for the action. She grabbed a loaf of bread from the foot of her pedestal and leapt over the side of the boat, swimming off like a torpedo towards one of the smaller boats in the ship yard.

Her choice served her well as this year's pack of Careers were of the silent but deadly variety. Ten were dead within the first two minutes, the pair from Six being the first ones to fall per Olga's orders to her tributes, and Marlin as the third with his throat cut wide open by the boy from One. Many tributes abandoned their supplies and ran away, but it soon became clear that jumping into the water was a bad move if a tribute lacked the swimming prowess that Mags had.

A shark mutt was in the water, one that seemed to emit a rather foreboding sort of song every time it opened its massive jaws.

The girl from Eight found out about the mutt in the hardest way possible, while the pack of Four wasted no time gearing up and moving out to cover ground. Per Olga's instruction, they were not to waste any time in case their prey escaped and later on deprived them of the chance to take them out.

While the Careers got to work with deadly efficiency and reduced the number of living tributes down to ten during the dead of night, Mags got to work on her own plan. She asked her sponsor for a harpoon and supplies to make some fine fish soup. It was all delivered promptly and so she began to get to work on cooking up a plan... literally.

All the while, the Careers hunted slow and menacingly throughout the night.

* * *

Museida watched the screen, wiping a sweat off of his face with a rag. He had to admit, the Avox's provided some excellent service. He'd have willingly given them a tip if not for the fact it would've got them in trouble.

Mags was still alive as of the third day, more than seventeen of the tributes could say at this point. The remaining seven tributes had scattered around the arena. More specifically, the Outliers had scattered and the quiet, deadly pack of four were sweeping the arena in one slow hunt for those who remained. It seemed inevitable that they would find her eventually, especially as now there were twenty sharks in the water, each one thirsty for blood. Escape via swimming was no longer anything but a suicide method.

"Come on, keep going," Museida muttered, watching Mags upon the screens.

At present his tribute had ran back to the Cornucopia upon the Rusty Bucket, refilling on food and water. With the pack over a mile away, searching around a smaller boat – the 'Piece of Ship' – it left Mags free to do as she liked with the supplies. Her choice, of course, was to steal them.

"Smart, smart," Museida whispered. "...Dumb, dumb!"

Mags wasn't turning tail and running off like he had expected. Instead she had laid down her bowl of soup and was calmly mixing it. Using a lighter from amongst the cornucopia supplies she began to warm it up nicely.

"Notebook and pencil please," Mags called to the sky.

It wasn't even a minute before Museida had opened his wallet and sent down the requested items. He had no need for the surplus of cash he had, so why not do some charity? Mags wrote out a quick note of some kind, one that the cameras couldn't pick up.

"What's she doing?" Honorius asked from his seat beside Museida. With both of his tributes dead he was stuck hanging around until it all ended. "Giving up and having a last meal?"

"I don't think so," Museida said. "She's a tough one... though, honestly? I have no fucking clue what her plan is."

Museida tensed, seeing the pack returning to the Cornucopia on another screen. The smug look on Olga's face and look of pure professionalism in Peridot's eyes had him scowling. As much as he liked Baron and didn't mind Runa, the way 'their sort' tended to act had him feeling bitter more often than not.

"Your tributes look tired Olga," he heard Mizar say.

"Tired, but successful. They're about to knock this down to the final six and eliminate District Four," Olga said, calm as a gentle breeze. "Just watch."

"I'd honestly rather not," Mizar said, turning away to focus on the boy from Nine. "Come on..."

While the boy from Nine stumbled deliriously from the fumes of the rusty bucket's engine room the Careers made their way back, closer with every second. True to Mizar's word, they looked fairly exhausted.

"He's right... they seem tired..." Pliny yawned, hardly awake herself.

"You can't judge that," Olga said, snickering.

"She can't, but I can," Fir added with a giggle. "They're sawing so many logs you'd think they were from my District!"

On screen Mags suddenly poured the contents of a small bottle into the soup. She bolted away and leapt over the side of the boat. Grabbing onto a rope she swung herself towards a small lifeboat, starting to paddle it towards the docks. Unaware their prey had vanished the Careers came back and relaxed, intending to take a quick five minute break.

"How many left to go?" Karma from Two asked, sipping some of her water.

"Still three," her District Partner, a large boy by the name of Thaddius replied. "Boy from Nine, Girl from Four... who was the other one?"

"Girl from Five," was the reply given by Awesome from One. "She's tiny, she won't last much longer."

"Wish we could sleep," Caramel, also from One, grumbled. "Been days with just brief naps... hey, smell that?"

The Careers all crowded around the bow of soup, eager for something more than just the arena rations. One look at the sponsor note seemed to tell them that it was sponsored to Awesome.

"...Oh, stop looking at me like that," he said, rolling his eyes. "Looks big enough to us to all have a share. I'll go first as it's mine and then we'll go down through kill count."

"So, I'm last?" Caramel asked, annoyed.

"Fair is fair," Awesome shrugged.

Awesome took a few deep gulps and passed the bowl to Thor. Soon it was passed to Karma, who gagged for a moment.

"Bitter aftertaste. Must be eel or something," she said, wiping her lips.

Caramel was a moment away from taking a gulp of what was left in the bowl, only stopping when Awesome fell down in a bit of gasping and choking. Second later Thor and Karma did the same, the trio of Careers dead within the next two minutes from the rather potent, toxic boat fuel mixed in with the fishy soup.

Caramel was quick to get moving after that, searching for her final few opponents. Up in the control room Museida applauded, laughing in triumph at Mags' clever move. One look down the desks set up told him all he needed to know.

Olga was infuriated and a plan like what Mags did was unlikely to be fallen for until at least a decade had past. It didn't matter to him, as it had kept his tribute alive all the same. He couldn't help feeling confused, though, at how Peridot was wholly unaffected by what happened.

"...I never liked that boy," she said, shrugging. "If you were a noble in One and grew up in the Flawless Estate you'd get it. I prefer mentoring non-nobles, myself."

* * *

The Games dragged on towards the fifth day with the final four still varying degrees of alive. The large ship yard made hunting for each other a fairly difficult task, one that the Gamemakers were happy to assist in speeding up.

The docks crumbled and the boats sank under the grimy dock water.

It had come right on cue, really. One moment Mags had been forced into a duel against Caramel, one that was as brutal as the fish hook flail she was using against her foe's face, but it seemed destined to end in her death.

The way the boat started to turn over midway through the battle and suddenly the tributes had no care except to stay on solid ground. Mags had used her weaving skills to make a small boat entirely out of wiring from within various boats, having deemed the lifeboats as not seaworthy.

Caramel had no such boat and thus it wasn't ten minutes before she sank under the filthy water, thus leaving another noble house driven into bloodline extinction out of greed and desire for having a Victor in the family.

While Mags floated in her boat and Arendellian scrambled her tiny self into a rickety lifeboat it left Branner from Nine to scramble up to the crowd's nest of the sinking Rusty Bucket. Even with his shelter gradually sinking it seemed he had enough high ground to win.

Well, it did until the mast broke and the sharks got him.

With Mags and Arendellian nowhere near each other it was a matter of surviving the raging waves and snarling sharks trying to capsize them for as long as it took.

One boat overturned, its passenger swiftly devoured in an instant. When the trumpets sounded and the Hovercraft came down for the Victor it wasn't for Arendellian.

"Get out of here! Bugger off!" Mags yelled, shaking a bloodsoaked fist at one of the sharks gazing hungrily up at her.

* * *

"So, who was the sponsor you found for me?" Mags later asked, sitting at a table at the side of the Capitol party. "I owe them my life."

"Oh really? What would you do for them?" Museida asked, curious as he poured himself a drink.

"Give them a hug, for one thing," Mags said, downing a glass of juice in one gulp.

Museida set down his drink and opened his arms, smiling genuinely for the first time in years.

"Well then, let's hug it out," he said, chuckling. "It was me all along."

It was only a minute or two after Mags had flung her arms around her Mentor that a thought occurred to her. One about the legalities of what Museida had done.

"Are you allowed to do that? Use your own money to sponsor me?" Mags asked, unsure.

"I mean, too late now if I'm not," Museida said, shrugging. "Everybody else is dead last time I checked."

To this Mag let out a very uncomfortable sort of laugh, accepting this response.

"I think we're going to get along just fine," Mags said, smiling. "Best neighbours ever?"

"Eh, maybe. But I agree, I think we'll get along," Museida said, a smile crossing his face again.

"Oh, fair warning, I host rave parties every friday. That gonna be a problem?" Mags asked, mischief filling her eyes.

Museida's smile vanished.

"I should've saved Marlin," he said, flatly.

Soon though, he and Mags were laughing again. Even a formal, vicious warning from Orion was unable to ruin his mood. After all, true to Musida's claim, there was no rule written down sayign a mentor could not sponsor their own tribute.

Starting from the Twelfth Hunger Games there was such a rule. This, and a lack of Gamemaker mercy towards tributes from Four that lasted for a grim stretch of time.

* * *

"Think there might have been any way that Mags could have survived the Quell?" Katniss asked, as she and Peeta kept walking. "Guess I'm just thinking, maybe if we did something a little difference there may have been another survivor... I gotta stop thinking of such what ifs."

"I should too. It's maddening," Peeta agreed. "I don't know, maybe... maybe if we had gone counter clockwise in the arena during the first night? We'll never know."

"Honestly, it'd only take one little change for us to have both died in our first Hunger Games," Katniss said, perturbed by the thought.

The pair soon came to the next Victor upon the lengthy sidewalk. The imprinted face of a sallow cheeked boy with thick glasses looked back up at them, his hair fairly stringy and unkempt.

"Shunt," Katniss noted, reading the name beneath the face. "The first tribute to use fire itself as a deliberate weapon, right?"

"Can't say I remember," Peeta replied. "If you're right though, it seems you weren't the only tribute who ignited a bit of a spark."

* * *

There we go, done with our first canon Victor. Like I said, I've always liked Mags, the selfless old lady who essentially tossed her life aside for poor Annie. That kind of sheer bravery and love is to be admired. Here though, we can see she was a right handful in her youth, one with a cool mentor and a good set of smarts in her mind. Expect her to pop up again from time to time!

* * *

 **Stats**

 **District 1:** Peridot Gaudy (8th Games)

 **District 2:** Baron Overwhill (4th Games), Runa Peace (7th Games), Olga Machete (10th Games)

 **District 3:** Honorius Perthshire (5th Games)

 **District 4:** Museida Selkirk (3rd Games), Mags Flanagan (11th Games)

 **District 5:** N/A

 **District 6:** N/A

 **District 7:** Pliny Aransio (2nd Games), Fir Buzz (9th Games)

 **District 8:** N/A

 **District 9:** Mizar Aldjoy (1st Games)

 **District 10:** N/A

 **District 11:** N/A

 **District 12:** Duke Saint-Rose (6th Games)


	13. Shunt Gaspar

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Hunger Games. They belong to Suzanne Collins.

 **Note:** Here we are, another Victor of the many, many still to come! Not exactly got much to say here, beside how world building continues to be fun. After all, it's time to answer a question I've had in mind for a while now... how did the tesserae system start? Let's find out the answer!

* * *

Peeta looked down at the image of the boy with thick, heavy specs on the sidewalk. He couldn't help but narrow his eyes thoughtfully.

"So, he was the first to use fire as a weapon. Like, how exactly? A bush fire caused with intent?" Peeta asked. "Or just swinging a burning torch at somebody?"

"Not quite. From the stories I've heard it seems this boy build a flamethrower," Katniss explained, looking grim at the thought. "Death by fire. It's horrific to imagine, and after my run in with the fireballs I can imagine it far more clearly than I'd like."

"I'll take your word for it. I guess... whatever gets somebody out of the arena, right?" Peeta said, similarly disturbed. "Victors have resorted to more painful means of combat than a flamethrower."

"They sure have," Katniss said. "Too bad Shunt's just like all of them in the end. He didn't win without killing."

* * *

 **12th Annual Hunger Games**

 **Name:** Shunt Gaspar

 **Gender:** Male

 **District:** 5

 **Age:** 15

 **Kills:** 6

* * *

At the time of the 12th Hunger Games it seemed that Panem was starting to get put back the way it once was, albeit with increasingly suffocating Peacekeeper security and a much bigger feeling of hopelessness upon the minds of many District citizens. With aid from Olga playing the part of the patriot so well it had been easy to get District Two right back to how it should have been and, indeed, somewhat better than it was before. Life seemed to be fairly good there.

Of course, plenty of other Districts couldn't say the same. Reconstruction and clean-up in places such as Three, Six, Seven and Eight was still ongoing without any clear estimate for when the work would be finished. Of course, at least those Districts did not have the issues District Five had.

Broken and mangled generators, collapsed power plants and extremely polluted rivers... things the citizens were forced at gunpoint to clear up and fix. People died in the efforts, a tragedy the Capitol merely saw as an even trade for what had happened in the Dark Days. Of course, with Five providing a lot of the power the Capitol needed it had eventually been clear that they needed to step in at least a little bit, otherwise little Billy just off of the central park of the great city wouldn't be able to use his night light. They couldn't be having that, could they?

With the citizens overworked, overstressed and having almost nothing to live on a problem quickly presented itself, one that was wide spread in almost all of the Districts. People were starving and productivity was slowing down because of this. It seemed clear to Orion that something had to be done; without food they would die and then the Capitol would be unable to sustain their system and their lives of excess and luxury.

Naturally, just giving out food was too easy. Too merciful. Any food and escape from suffering would come at a cost from the 'generous Capitol'. Thus, after a meeting with his ministers – with grand food provided of course – the tesserae system was started. A year's supply of oil and grain would be given out to the person who signed up for it and all those within their family who they took it out for.

The catch was that for every person that tesserae was taken for, the person signing up would have their name added to the reaping an extra time. For some, this meant one extra slip in the reaping bowl and was deemed irrelevant when put beside starvation.

For Shunt Gasper this meant ten extra slips within the reaping bowl that year. One for himself, five for his siblings not yet in reaping age, two for his parents and two for his paternal grandparents. His entire family. While he was far from the only person to take out a bulk of tesserae, he was among the poorest and scrawniest of those who did so.

As the reaping for the Twelfth Hunger Games drew nearer those who had chosen to take out tesserae faced the reality of just how greatly their odds of being reaped had increased. Many tears were wept and screaming fits had over the injustice of it all. But as the Capitol was keen to remind any riot, it had been the choice of those who took tesserae to begin with.

Some youths were given comfort, others were straight up told to make every day count just in case the worst were to come true. Shunt, however, was given something far more useful in his situation.

Advice.

Shunt came from a family of lower class mechanics and engineers, the sort who were often covered in oil stains, scars from being zapped or patches of engine grease. Their job had always been to repair broken power plant equipment, restart generators or to make new welding equipment for the higher-ups. It was gritty, unpleasant work but nonetheless work that were effective with.

"Don't call any attention to yourself, son," his dad had told him. "You saw how that went for the boy from Four last year. Let them just forget about you to start with."

Shunt's only reply had been to timidly wheeze out what would happen if they came for him anyway.

"You run," his dad continued. "Run until you are alone and can put your skills to good use."

Despite his rather lanky, bony sort of build the fact was that Shunt couldn't be called a boy lacking skills. He was observant, quite nippy on his feet and had taken to the family craft with ease. For him it was child's play to make some sort of useful, functional device from the various parts he was supplied with.

"What skills do I have that work in the arena?" Shunt asked. "Five never gets sponsors. Where'd I get parts for something?"

Mr Gaspar laid both hands upon his son's shoulders.

" _If_ you are reaped, because you are **never** volunteering, try using what is within the cameras, the launch pedestals and such. It's all artificial, and an artificial place requires building components," he told his son. "Stealing is acceptable in the arena. In essence, you'd be just grabbing supplies from a place other than the Cornucopia, son."

The talk ended with father and son heading out for a midnight work shift. As they worked away on a generator throughout the night Shunt began to idly notice that he had another skill that would be of help, if he was indeed reaped.

He almost never slept and was so used to this fact that he could survive on three hours of sleep a night.

* * *

With very few exceptions many of the District child had their lives and choices decided for them from the moment they were born, that being to go into their own District's industry lest they face the consequences. Shunt could handle the work just fine, of course, but even he had his own personal ambition that he longed to have the opportunity to make into a reality.

Writing.

Simply put, he loved to write stories. Tales of knights and dragons, anecdotes of aliens and Peacekeepers, journeys starring pirates out on the unknown seas beyond Panem and far more besides. His mind was often abuzz with ideas for stories to be written, stories which he knew would never be able to go anywhere due to the powers that be having decided his destiny for him.

He liked stories about dragons the best. Something about their fire breathing, their immense power, their hoards of treasure... it held his attention effortlessly. So much so that he'd even been plotting out a story of a small dragon having to save his realm when a tubby lizardman, maybe based on the President or maybe not, came by to lay waste upon the magical, peaceful world.

"It'll never happen," said his mother.

"It'll never happen," said his teacher.

"It'll never happen," said his supervisor at the power plant.

Shunt could only sigh sometimes, futilely telling himself it might just happen one day far in the future. Maybe, just maybe.

He knew it was pretty pathetic to lie to himself.

* * *

Shunt was a bit more surprised than he later admitted he should have been when his name was drawn from the reaping ball on a rainy summer day. Standing upon the stage alongside a girl prone to twitching after having been shocked so many times in one of the power plants it seemed like another year of defeat was in store for Five.

Who would put money on a scrawny whelp with thick coke bottle glasses and a skinny, pimply girl prone to twitching?

Shunt sat in the Judgement Building with his family for quite a while, for as long as they were able to stay before getting literally dragged off to go to work. Hugs, kisses, words of comfort, last minute advice and thinly veiled final goodbyes were shared all around by the Gaspar family.

After all, it really did seem like goodbye. Five had never managed to win, the closest they ever got having been the previous year where their chances of victory were swallowed up by a shark alongside Arendellian. Stronger boys than Shunt had already died, twelve times over.

The tesserae system had saved them from starvation, but condemned Shunt to a likely far more painful fate. The food was given over and the Capitol benefited as always, but also as always the Districts had been cheated and taken the full penalty for the mere scraps thrown their way.

Shunt was silent for the twenty minutes between his family leaving and being taken to board the train. There wasn't much of anything that he could really say after being reaped for what seemed to be an almost certain chance of being slaughtered.

But there was plenty that he could _think_. And so, notebook in hand, Shunt boarded the train with a feigned smile and began to make notes on everything that was going on around him, whether or not he thought it was relevant.

His twitchy District Partner, a short seventeen year old by the name of Chrome.

Captain Derceto, the Peacekeeper assigned to 'mentor' tributes from Five until they had their first Victor, whenever that may be.

The tributes from the other Districts shown on the reaping recap. Powerful brutes from One and Two, a lanky duo from Three, two tiny kids from Four, druggies from Six, a lumberjack and lumberjill from Seven, a heavyset pair of fabric workers from Eight, two field workers from Nine, a butcher and a ranch hand from Ten, two starving youths from Eleven and a pair of scarred miners from Twelve.

As Shunt lay in his bed within the train that night he kept rereading all the things he had taken notes on. All he could think about, aside fear of death, was how all these characters would factor into his story.

"It's my story. They are characters. The hero never dies," Shunt told himself.

It was the first of hundreds of times he would repeat those exact words to himself, both that night and in the days to come.

One thing he knew for sure was that the dashing boy from One with the cocky smirk was sure to be the antagonist of his tale. It was a gut feeling.

* * *

The only thing that kept Shunt going through the training days was forcing himself to see the looming nightmare as a story, much like the one he so desperately wanted to publish and make a name for himself with. So, that's what he did. He suppressed fear and reality, outright forcing a mental block against the grisly feelings and kept telling himself that it was just a story, one with a happy ending.

The training centre become the barracks that every hero had to train their skills on to slay the monsters up ahead.

Chrome became his wizard sidekick.

The four Careers became a pack of dark, corrupt knights who cared not for justice, only personal glory. The large boy from Seven they allowed to join them became their pet ogre.

The Gamemakers became the corrupt noble court.

The weapons at the training stations were merely magical equipment used for slaying evil. All the survival stations were simply a skill check to ensure the knights were able to survive outside the walls of the barracks.

None of this helped at all when Shunt was laying awake long into the nights, unable to get the image of Randolphus from One sneering at him and Chrome like they were sheep and he was a vile wolf.

"You're a knight, you are courages. Knights can be scared and still save the day," Shunt muttered to himself. "If you cannot wield a sword, make something you can use..."

After much sketching and torn up paper in his notebook Shunt found his answer when his mind dwelled upon dragons.

* * *

Shunt had only managed a four in training, knowing that he simply wasn't built for using the most impressive of weaponry nor learning the most cool of skills like the Career pack were going to. Thus, the interview became his only real chance to show off for the crowd and earn some favour.

The issue was, despite handling the etiquette training just fine, Shunt was hardly what one could call a social or popular person. In fact, after the four Careers gave one truly dashing performance his rather nerdy discussion about fantasy and of his gritty maintained work was fairly subpar in comparison.

I fact, it was even subpar to the girl from Three who claimed she had no issues killing and was of the mind the rest were just computer viruses needing to be cleansed from the system. Such an attitude earned her at least some form of interest.

"I like to tell stories," Shunt said to Mortimer with a small shrug. "You know, the tales of old when knights were bold. Oh, and dragons. They're just like my work back home, actually... lots of fire generally being involved. You could say the arena is going to be a story of which I'm the main character."

"Will you be one of the heroes who dies for the greater good?" Mortimer asked. "For the sake of peace and prosperity in Panem?"

"Heroes don't die," Shunt said, firm. "And once I make it out... buy my book? It's almost done."

The audience cheered that they would, but it was barely concealed lies. They were all chattering about the Careers on the way home, no mind paid to the scrawny boy with thick glasses from Five.

Shunt didn't mind this. If he was forgotten about then he might just be able to survive the first day.

* * *

Many of the tributes were confused when they were launched into darkness that year. All but Shunt, that is. He'd spent enough nights working on generators or welding equipment in pure darkness and thus had been gifted rather strong night vision. To him, it was obvious what was going on and easy to see the grey coloured Cornucopia distantly outlined in the shadows.

The arena had gone from the overground to the underground. It was a massive, open cavern that the tributes had been thrown into this year. Rocky terrain, plenty of dull coloured moss, shallow cake lakes, stalactites and stalagmites, blind cave rats and more were what this year's batch of unlucky kids had to content with. Above all, the darkness was going to be quite a problem for the tributes to navigate through.

Especially due to the fact several of them were afraid of the dark. The young pair from Four howled and cried in the darkness, the screams soon making the heavy girl from Eight start to wail as well. The end result to all of this was that the girl from Four fell to the mines, dying before the countdown had even come to an end.

Shunt swallowed his own vomit, forcing himself to put aside all feelings of sheer mortal terror. This was his story and he was the adventurer who'd be making it out of the deadly decadent court's dungeon. So, when the gong rang, he ran into the fray.

His night vision served him well, allowing him to easily pull ahead of the other tributes and gather up the largest backpack, night vision goggles and a tool kit. By the time the rest of the tributes had gotten their hands on equipment and some deadly weapons Shunt was already running away into the deep shadows and off in the direction of one of the underground lakes.

With the difficulty in seeing what was going on and how Randolphus had been the only one able to grab a pair of night vision goggles in the precious opening minutes the bloodbath had been small. It was a twisted sort of world when the loss of seven young lives, including Chrome, could be seen as 'small'.

Watching the anthem that night Shunt wept for the loss of his wizard companion.

* * *

This year presented another problem that the Gamemakers were to learn from in future years, should they ever decide on an underground terrain again.

The tributes couldn't see shit.

Only five pair of night vision goggles had been provided. Shunt had one of them, Randolphus and his partner Vanilla had a pair each, one pair had been destroyed in the opening bloodbath when the boy from Seven had accidentally thrown the boy from Eight on top of them and the last pair had been snagged by the girl from Twelve.

Everybody else had to make do with flashlights or torches, but therein was the next problem. Nobody dared used them in case the Careers or a mutt would find them. The only ones who did make a use of them were the pair from Two and the boy from Seven. They had no issues finding their way around.

It also meant they scared off all their prey, the Outliers able to see them long before they could, in turn, see them right back. It meant that nobody else had died after the bloodbath by the time day four rolled around. The pack argued loud and furiously over this, action finally entering the Games again when Randolphus lost his temper and skewered the girl from Two on his rapier.

"You bastard!" Homer from Two had sworn.

Of course, with the Ones tightly allied and the boy from Seven backing them up he had no choice but to flee into the darkness. Just like that, the pack had split.

And, just like that, the noise they made drove their prey even further away from them. Orion demanded that in future the Gamemakers put in more night vision goggles, or else they'd be retired... from existence.

Shunt took advantage of the fact the Careers were audible a mile to the north and made a beeline back to the Cornucopia, his mind abuzz with ideas for what he could do next. Indeed, as soon as he arrived and saw nobody was there he began to ransack the place of its food and water.

His backpack had been full of food from day one, but one could never have enough in Panem. Or a dark cavern as the case may have been.

Shunt had been midway through breaking cameras for their parts and using a crowbar to prize open a launch pad to snag some of the pieces inside when footsteps entered his ears. Two sets, in fact.

The girl from Twelve was being pursued by the girl from Ten and based on her bloodied arm and the cleaver the ranch hand was holding it seemed the chase was only able to end one way.

Shunt firmly told himself the girl from Twelve was a damsel in distress, the girl from Ten a wanted outlaw and himself the knight that would save the day.

The fight was short and savage, but under a minute later Shunt had tackled the girl from Ten and quickly stabbed her thrice in the back. Panting and shaking, he looked at the girl from Twelve and she back at him.

They noticed each other's night vision glasses.

"I think we might live longer if we formed an adventurer party with each other," Shunt said, offering out his hand once he was sure the girl had no weapons on her. "Shunt Gaspar."

"Bernadette Love," the girl replied, looking a little confused by Shunt's wording. "Uh, you mean working together, right? Sure, I have nothing left to lose."

"Then let's find a place to camp and make a plan of battle against the dark knights," Shunt declared, wringing his hands and making a great effort to not look at the corpse of the so-called 'outlaw'.

Bernadette seemed a little confused by the way Shunt was talking, but shrugged it off. If it was his way of keeping himself sane in this hell then who was she to judge? She was the one who had resorted to eating a rat already.

* * *

Shunt told Bernadette, two days later, that the best way to stay relevant was to ensure they were the main characters, though this train of thought only served to confuse her.

"I mean, think about it, this is a show in the Capitol right?" Shunt had explained. "So, let's make ourselves the stars of that show. You've seen late night horror movies, right? The people who do the most live longer and the quiet ones get forgotten about and die."

Bernadette had never seen anything on TV aside from the Games at mandatory viewing, having been too poor for a television. But even she had to admit Shunt's words made a sort of sense.

"So, what our our roles?" she had replied.

Figuring that he'd nothing to really lose anymore, Shunt called himself the bold knight and Bernadette the pretty and tough princess. Even with being in the arena and there still being ten other people hunting for them the girl from Twelve had to admit that being called pretty was something she rather liked.

"I like that role," she said, giggling. "But how to we stay relevant?"

"Slay a monster, defeat a warlord or kiss," had been Shunt's response.

Thinking of it as the least deadly of the three ideas Bernadette gave Shunt a light kiss.

"A thank you for saving me," she said, awkwardly.

Shunt felt like more of a goofy jester than a fool in that moment, but he hardly cared. A girl had kissed him, a real girl!

Hidden away near a fissure that night while the main Career pack were hunting down the pair from Nine and Homer was reluctantly working with Calculus from Three to escape a hoard of rat mutts, the knight and princess were making a plan of action.

"How can we... slay the dark knights if they're much better armed than us?" she'd asked. "How can we slay anybody if they're all hidden in the darkness. I think my goggles are running out of power."

"We make a bigger, better weapon," Shunt said, emptying out all the parts he had collected. "I think I have most of what I'll need... my princess, I need you to guard I, the knight."

"To what end will I be guarding thou for?" Bernadette asked, playing along.

"I'll be making us one holy weapon indeed," Shunt replied. "A flamethrower."

Shunt worked throughout the night, his princess watching over him with knives in hand in case of any trouble. Two cannons fired, marking another defeat for District Nine and more triumph for One and Seven. There would have been a third cannon, had Calculus not been able to convince Homer to work with her. Even Homer would admit that taking on his three former allies by himself was suicide.

All such alliances hardly mattered to Shunt, not when he got the final bit of wiring and last two bolts in place. The flamethrower was finished after sixteen hours of constant work.

The only issue he had, one that had him wary as he settled down in the fissure alongside Bernadette, was where he would get the fuel from.

* * *

Shunt's story took an unhappy twist by the time day eleven came around. After a long walk to where the moss grew at its thickest, the plant being a workable substitute fuel for Shunt's weapon, during which he had taken down Jeremiah from Seven – the boy left for dead by his former allies from One and having been mostly dead already – disaster had struck.

One moment Shunt had been fuelling up his flamethrower at a leisurely pace while Bernadette sipped from her water bottle a few feet beside him.

The next moment the pair from One had descended upon them, leaping from the short cliff above. One swing of the sword had Shunt's princess dead before she could even react. He screamed, breathless in horror at the sight of his ally laying dead in a pool of blood.

He sat hunched up with his weapon, fuelled only seconds before, in his hands. Randolphus and Vanilla circled around him, blades in hand and laughter echoing out of their mouths.

"You call yourself a knight? You're shaking like a little boy," Randolphus taunted. "You call yourself a hero? I call you an extra."

"You lost little boy? You want your mommy?" Vanilla sneered, holding up her sharp sword for Shunt to see. "Shame the little miner bitch didn't scream... but I bet a shrimp like you will."

Like many heroes, Shunt was a boy who had a limit and a certain list of things that got him angry. Among the topmost of that list was mocking people whom he cared about, whether they were living or dead.

"Keep my princess out of your mouth," Shunt said, rising up with shaky legs. "You shan't take her name in such vain!"

"Or else what?" Vanilla spat.

"Yeah, what?" Randolphus added, having stood back a bit to enjoy the show going on.

"He won't do shit Randolphus," Vanilla said, snickering. "He's just a weak little boy with dreams he'll never ever-."

Vanilla stopped speaking the instant Shunt pulled the trigger on his weapon. Lacking proper fuel the fire wasn't as long ranged or searingly powerful as the flamethrowers the Capitol were known to use at times.

But that didn't mean anything when Vanilla was a mere meter away from Shunt. In an instant she was screaming in the most shrill, severe agony as her body was consumed by the inferno of fire. Hardly a few seconds had passed before she collapsed in a burning, crumpled heap. Her screams were breathless and near silent, her vocal cords having been burnt to a crisp.

When her cannon fired Randolphus had lost all traces of mocking and laughter. Keenly aware his foe was clearly nowhere close to harmless, he was now alert and fully focused.

"You're tough, I'll give you that. That was a brutal kill even by **my** standards," he said, unnerved by what he had seen. "Let's do this."

Alas, they did not do any such thing. Shunt had already used up the limited fuel and ran for his life into the darkness. Randolphus pursued him, of course, but Shunt had gotten a head start and managed to lose the Career by swiftly moving through an area full of large stalactites and stalagmites. It took all his energy and left his body screaming in protest, but he managed to climb up a large stalagmite and watched as Randolphus ran by under him, not bothering to look up.

It was a restless, depressing night for Shunt. His princess was lost, the dark knight was on a rampage and he felt like he was hardly the hero he kept telling himself he was.

Perhaps this was a story told through the eyes of its villain? Shunt shuddered at the thought, trying to work out what to do next.

* * *

Three days passed by, deathless. Only Shunt and Randolphus had night vision goggles, but finding the other tributes in the massive cavern was proving to be a highly difficult endeavour. Even Homer was reluctant to kill Calculus, having found her company admittedly tolerable.

The Gamemakers called a Feast, one that promised food, water, medical supplies and more besides. To ensure the tributes would actually be able to find it they launched some large light pillars by the Cornucopia, unmissable from even several miles away.

Shunt had run out of food and, with his flamethrower now fuelled on oil from a small pool he'd found at the edge of the arena, felt it was worth risking it all by attending the Feast.

The seven tributes all ran into the fray to gather what they needed. Randolphus wasted no time getting to work, ignoring the supplies in favour of swiftly slicing Pumpkin from Eleven with his sword. The boy fell, dead seconds later.

Perhaps he was the lucky one really, given what happened next.

While Homer and Calculus worked side by side to take out Breezy from Seven a rematch ensued between Shunt and Randolphus. Shunt dodged all the wild swings of the sword, the Career boy going for quantity over quality with his attacks. He didn't want to be too close to the flamethrower and end up like Vanilla had.

Shunt activated his weapon and missed Randolphus, the boy leaping to the side and taking a moment to catch his breath.

The fire, however, did not miss the canister of fuel on the table. It had been provided as a proper fuel source for Shunt to use.

The result was a fiery explosion. Shunt turned and ran, abandoning his weapon in favour of keeping himself alive and not incinerated. He only paused to grab a short sword off of the ground on his way out of the illuminated clearing.

When the already vast inferno met the flamethrower the scorching fire practically tripled in size as another explosion erupted. In seconds the clearing was on fire and so was Randolphus arm. The boy howled in agony as he tore away into the darkness, trying desperately to put out the fire.

He was lucky, especially due to how the fire had consumed Calculus and Homer right away. The former burned over two horrible minutes while the latter was burnt to a crisp in mere seconds.

The only other survivor of the gradually spreading inferno was Thimble from Eight. The heavy girl ran off into the darkness clutching a basket of bread, half crazy from the torment she'd witnessed and experienced.

* * *

Shunt had been right about the most major 'characters' lasting the longest, as the Gamemakers had ended up sending rats mutts after the comparatively minor Thimble. It was just the hero and the villain who remained, and after having five kills to his name Shunt was no longer sure which one he was.

It didn't matter, because he wanted to win for the sake of his family and his princess. Barely a full day after the fiery explosion at the Cornucopia he came across Randolphus once again.

Though the inferno had not spread more than a mile past the Cornucopia and wouldn't interfere with the finale, it had been clear from a glance that Randolphus wasn't fighting at full power anymore.

The way his left arm was utterly charred and burn marks peppered his body may have had at least a little to do with it. That and how his night vision goggles had been lost to the fire.

The pair were like a duo of shadows in the darkness, fighting and moving at a rapid pace. Randolphus had size and battle tactics, while Shunt had speed and better vision. The burns had negated Randolphus' advantage.

"I'll destroy you!" Randolphus had roared.

Shunt said nothing, content to dodge and lunge about as he gradually inflicted more and more small cuts upon the once powerful villain of his story.

The blood loss from the cuts caused Randolphus to stumble about before long, drained and unfocused. He made one final swing at Shunt that could've easily cut him in half.

It would have had Shunt not seen it coming and rolled behind Randolphus, thrusting his short sword right through the boy's lower back and out of his ribcage on the other side. He was dead before he crumpled over.

Shunt left the arena alive, feeling like he had been the darkest knight all along.

* * *

"I'm no hero of this story," he told Mortimer after the Games.

"I'm no hero of this story," he told the Districts on his tour.

"I'm no hero of this story," he told his youngest sibling, a small girl called Bulba, months later at their home in the Victor Village.

Bulba gave her brother a big, tight hug.

"You're the hero of **my** story," she told him with all sincerity. "You stopped us from going hungry ever again."

Shunt couldn't help but smile. Maybe, just maybe, his story had bought about some good after all.

Indeed, the stories of Maverick the Dragon sold well and his pet project Bernadette the Warrior Princess seemed bound for success too.

* * *

"You know, now that I think about it, his name rings a bell," Peeta said, his eyes narrowed slightly in thought. "I think I once saw Effie reading a book written by this guy. I mean, maybe it was somebody with the same name but... I just think it's too much of a coincidence."

"What was the book about?" Katniss asked as she and Peeta kept on walking.

"I didn't really ask, I just saw the title," Peeta said. "Something about a princess called Bernadette."

"...I feel like I know that name..." Katniss trailed off, unsure. "Not sure why."

"Same," Peeta agreed. "Here we are, number thirteen."

Upon the sidewalk was the face of a timid looking girl with long hair, looking like she was in a permanent state of shyness. Notably, the right half of her face seemed to be a deformed mixture of swollen and badly shrivelled, her right eye somewhat lopsided due to this.

"What happened to her face?" Katniss asked. "Arena injury?"

"I... think she may have been born like that?" Peeta replied, not overly certain. "Looks aren't everything. Didn't stop Gwenith Rosebud here from winning the Hunger Games."

* * *

I had fun writing this one. I feel like D5 is a bit underrated at times, if that makes sense? Then again I am sure there are people who can make a case for literally ANY District being underrated. Anyway! Shunt, a geeky nerdy dork who loves fantasy and what somewhat amounts to LARPing. I don't know why, but it just seemed to really 'work' you know? If nothing else, building a flamethrower is a certain shade of badass. Made for some rather fun writing overall. With Shunt's victory that makes eight Districts that have a Victor now... when will Six, Eight, Ten and Eleven have one too? Stay tuned to find out!

* * *

 **Stats**

 **District 1:** Peridot Gaudy (8th Games)

 **District 2:** Baron Overwhill (4th Games), Runa Peace (7th Games), Olga Machete (10th Games)

 **District 3:** Honorius Perthshire (5th Games)

 **District 4:** Museida Selkirk (3rd Games), Mags Flanagan (11th Games)

 **District 5:** Shunt Gaspar (12th Games)

 **District 6:** N/A

 **District 7:** Pliny Aransio (2nd Games), Fir Buzz (9th Games)

 **District 8:** N/A

 **District 9:** Mizar Aldjoy (1st Games)

 **District 10:** N/A

 **District 11:** N/A

 **District 12:** Duke Saint-Rose (6th Games)


	14. Gwenith Rosebud

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Hunger Games. They belong to Suzanne Collins.

 **Note:** Ah, number thirteen, a number long known for the reputation of being unlucky. I guess, whatever number Hunger Games it is, you'd have to be very unlucky to get reaped. Then again, who says Volunteers can't have their own sort of bad luck? Been looking forward to writing this one, so hopefully it's turns out alright. Time to say hello to Gwenith!

* * *

"So, what's the story with Gwenith?" Katniss asked, surveying the face upon the sidewalk. "She set any trends?"

"Well, not so much a trend as being the sole person who ever did something," Peeta said, scanning his eyes upon Gwenith's stats. "She was the only volunteer District Nine ever had."

"She's only fourteen. Why would she volunteer for this kind of sick deathmatch?" Katniss asked, stunned. "...Stepping up for somebody she loved?"

"Can't say I know," Peeta said, shrugging. "I'm sure she had her reasons. All volunteers do, right? "

"I bet the Capitol didn't like her much," Katniss muttered, her arms crossed. "They people here see any sort of 'ugliness' or hair out of place as a disease."

"Yeah, you're not even wrong," Peeta admitted.

* * *

 **13th Annual Hunger Games**

 **Name:** Gwenith Rosebud

 **Gender:** Female

 **District:** 9

 **Age:** 14

 **Kills:** 2

* * *

"Come on, do it."

"I don't know, it seems like a bad idea..."

"Come on, do this and you're in our gang. For reals. You're not a chicken, are you?"

"No, I'm n-not..."

"Then do it. We're doing it to, Gwenny."

Gwenith stands in the fourteen year old girls' section of Nine's central square. The thirteenth reaping is due to start at any minute and presently she finds herself stood with a trio of girls she's been trying ever so hard to befriend for the past three years. Always so close to joining their gang, but not close enough.

Norette, Kernelly and their leader Maraline. The popular girls in school. Pretty, much loved, respected and getting whatever they want.

They're exactly what Gwenith wishes to be. What she might be if not for her birth defect upon her face making her the absolute bottom of the pecking order at school. But today... today, it will change they tell her. No more menial, often humiliating requests. No more doing their work or carrying their supplies. No more dangerous dares.

Just one game of reaping chicken and she's officially one of them.

"Just one game?" Gwenith asks, as if to be sure.

"Yep," Maraline confirms. "Watch who gets reaped and then when that doofus Escort asks for volunteers you put your hand up and down real quick. We're doing it too, as I said. She'll not even see."

"Yeah, it's harmless," Kernelly adds. "She'd not see you and even if she did you have to actually say you volunteer to get the spot."

"R-really?" Gwenith asks, still a little bit unsure.

"I mean, you've seen the recaps on TV sometimes right? Nobody ever volunteers without saying so. It's never without words," Maraline assures her with the slyest of silver tongues. "Trust us, we're your friends."

"We will be for life after this," Norette says.

Gwenith's stomach churns with worry and fear over the what-ifs of this game of 'reaping chicken'. But the desperation for any form of friendship and acceptance begins to override the concerns and scepticism bought on by common sense.

She quietly agrees to the game as the mayor of District Nine finishes reading the Treaty of Treason.

"And so I shall now list the names of our Victors, spared through the generosity of the Capitol," the mayor says, his tone perfectly emotionless.

He pauses for a moment as, all at once, the citizens of Nine look towards the young man seated on stage behind the mayor. Their only Victor back from when this nightmare had first started. Their one source of hope before eleven constant years of gruesome death and defeat.

"Mizar Aldjoy, Victor of the First Annual Hunger Games."

Gwenith can't help but frown, feeling bad for the broken looking man on the stage. So far he's had to mentor twenty two children and all of them have ended up killed in a variety of nasty ways. Nothing suggests that the twenty third and twenty fourth kids under his care will end up any better. Guilt fills the eyes of Mizar as he gazes out at the crowds of children, his expression truly haunted.

"Poor Mizar," Gwenith mutters. "He must have one tough life."

"Yeah, yeah, just remember the game," Maraline says with a snap of her fingers. "Hand up and then down once the call for Volunteers is raised."

Gwenith mumbles a quick agreement, her mind fully focused on how she will finally have friends and become part of the group she's longed to be accepted by for so very long. She becomes so filled with tunnel vision of no longer being at the bottom of the chain that she doesn't hear the name of the reaped girl exiting the eighteen year olds section nor see how her District's sole Victor has to swallow his vomit.

She almost misses the call for Volunteers, only bought back to reality when Maraline flicks her nose.

"Hand up," she hisses. "On three we all do it. One... two... three!"

Gwenith doesn't miss her cue, but the popular trio do. Indeed, they don't make a move to raise up their hands, instead trying to hold back giggles as for all of two seconds Gwenith has her hand raised.

"Ah, we have a volunteer!" the escort sings out, delighted.

It's only when the Peacekeepers begin making a beeline towards her that Gwenith realises what has happened. Terror in her eyes she can only stammer, hopeless and betrayed, at the trio she thought had wanted her as a friend.

"Have a fun trip to the Capitol," Maraline teases before breaking out into uproarious laugher alongside Norette and Kernelly.

"No! No! Please, I didn't mean it!" Gwenith wails, pleading and screaming as she is dragged up to the stage, howling in despair. "Please, let me go!"

"Oh, how nasty..." the escort mutters, dismayed at the appearance of the Volunteer. "Well, rules are rules. Maizie, you can go."

The girl who was the tribute barely a minute ago babbles something inaudible as she staggers off of the stage, looking about ready to faint. Gwenith stands, tears streaming down her face as all the nation looks upon her. She doesn't even look up at the cameras, more focused on the fact the girl she desperately wanted as her friends cared so little that they sent her off to die as a prank.

Her despair only grows worse when her District Partner ends up being a massive, muscular boy from one of the busiest wheat fields. Having such strong competition before even seeing the other tributes has Gwenith rapidly falling into depression, realising that no matter what she does she is going to die.

As Gwenith and big, burly Hawklin are made to shake hands and enter into the Judgement Building the District's lone Victor finds himself staring after them both.

Specifically, staring at the sobbing girl who Volunteered. Unlike most others he doesn't stare due to her tears or her deformity.

He stares in wonder because she just spared his sister from being thrown into the arena.

In that moment Mizar makes his choice. As he does every year he'll fight to bring one of his tributes home safe and sound... but as the best he can do is bring one of them back, he vows that no matter what he must do, he'll make this a year for District Nine.

He'll make sure that the girl identified as Gwenith Rosebud comes home.

* * *

Gwenith locks herself in her room on the train from the moment she is on board. She doesn't come out for dinner, she doesn't come out for the reaping recaps and she doesn't come out to talk to anybody. She spends the day weeping into her pillow, cursing herself for being so stupid to believe somebody out there had, even for a moment, wanted to be her friend.

A knock on the door at midnight gains her attention, even if only slightly.

"Gwenith, are you ready to talk?" Mizar asks, quietly. "I don't know what's going on exactly with this volunteering you did, but I have a promise to make for you."

Mizar takes a deep breath, thinking a subconscious apology to Hawklin and his family, one that he knows won't ever be accepted.

"I've made my choice," he continues. "I can only bring one of you back home at best. Normally I split my focus between two tributes, but as Hawklin is clearly powerful as he is and you are in need of help most of all... I've made the choice to put my efforts towards saving you."

Gwenith can't help but quietly gasp, awed by this. She can't help but hesitate, wondering if it's a just another trick.

"I'm not sure if you made the connection," Mizar keeps going. "But the girl you spared when you volunteered? That was my younger sister, Maizie. I've been in fear for years she'd end up reaped, and thanks to you she can live life without ever going into the Games. I understand this doesn't help you now, but whatever made you volunteer the fact is you saved her and I'm in your debt."

A silence passes for some time. Mizar isn't sure if Gwenith is even listening, but he continues to try in hopes she might meet him halfway.

"If you feel like giving these Games a shot... I'm willing to start mentoring right now. I'm never able to sleep during the train ride anyway," he says, letting out a deep sigh. "I guess I just-."

Mizar is cut off as the door opens, Gwenith stepping into the light. For a time both Mentor and tribute are silent.

"Do you really mean it?" Gwenith asks, sniffling. "You want to help me? Nobody's ever wanted me. Not when I look like a beast."

"Looks don't matter when you're in the arena," Mizar says, firm as he kneels down to be level with his comparatively shorter tribute. "No Victor looks pretty when they're taken out of there, whatever they went through. Come on, how about you tell me all about what happened over some hot chocolate."

"Hot chocolate?" Gwenith asks, uncertain. "What's that?"

"One of the few good things you'll find within the Capitol," Mizar replies.

Over the next several hours until dawn looms near Gwenith tells Mizar everything; about the bullying, about the way people looked at her on the streets, about how Maraline and her gang had tricked her into being in the Games and how they had laughed over it. Mizar has never felt so disgusted at people from his own District, his grip on his mug hard enough to make it form a small crack.

Hearing this confirms to Mizar that he has made the right choice in who to help. So, after hearing all of this and providing what comfort he can the original Victor shows Gwenith a late night repeat of the Reaping Recap and gives her pointers of who to avoid, who to charm and how to present herself in the days ahead. The arena hasn't arrived, but the Games have begun nonetheless.

"Get them sleep," he eventually tells her, gently leading Gwenith back to her room. "It's a big day tomorrow, far bigger than when I was in your spot over ten years ago."

Gwenith doesn't sleep much that night, but she does at least feel a bit better. In the most unexpected of places she has found somebody who cares about her.

* * *

The parades often have a star and this year it was not District Nine. Gwenith obeys Mizar's advice to wave to the crowd and put on a smile, happy tributes always getting more potential sponsor interest, but it's hard to pull it off when dressed in a corn stalk costume. Especially as her prep team and stylish did not bother hiding their disgust at how their tribute looks and covered her face with a flower mask.

"Don't let them get to you," Mizar whispers. "The second they see they've gotten to you, they'll never back off. You did great."

"Do you really think so?" Gwenith asks, glum behind the mask.

"I do. Besides, you did better than me. I fell off the chariot when I fainted," Mizar says, embarrassed at the memory. "I won this thing, and you're already doing better than I did."

Neither wants to bring up that all the other dead tributes from Nine also made it through the parade without fainting off the chariot.

Gwenith soon sees, however, that unlike what she and Mizar had assumed... the boy from Two is not the biggest threat this year.

It's drop dead gorgeous, glamorous and grisly Cleopatra from District One. Well endowed in looks and fighting skills, nobody argues that so far she's the audience favourite.

Gwenith is glad that she has the mask to hide her terrified eyes. It suddenly seems like looks may play a role after all.

* * *

When training begins Mizar tells Gwenith to learn as many survival sills as she possibly can. In an era of Careers and Sponsors, he's been around long enough to notice that Careers generally hone their combat abilities for the Games ahead, leaving food and water in the hands and wallets of their loyal Sponsors.

"Should I try to form any alliances or... um... learn a weapon?" Gwenith asks, timid as Hawklin walks by her.

It doesn't take a genius to know that the boy from Nine has worked out he's second fiddle and isn't at all pleased about it. Gwenith doesn't blame him and would willingly let him scream at her for it. Mizar feels the same way.

"If somebody wants to talk to you, then let them. It might lead somewhere. It's all about finding somebody that you really get along with... that you feel 'something' for. I felt that with Sophie all those years ago," Mizar trails off for a moment, a depressed look entering his eyes. "Just be careful who you trust. Now, as for weapons... got any experience with anything at all?"

"I've used sickles in the wheat fields since I was seven," Gwenith says. "Does that count?"

"In the arena everything counts," Mizar tells her. "Survival skills, sickles and potentially allies. Above all, do not do a thing to make yourself a target in the eyes of the tributes from One or Two. They train for this and are not the kind to show mercy to tributes from Nine. Don't go near them, or anybody they may happen to recruit."

Gwenith promises that she won't, already running through what little she knows about forest fruit as she boards the elevator to the training centre.

* * *

She keeps her promise, avoiding the pack entirely as she spends the first half of the training day learning about what fruits and flowers are safe or dangerous to eat. This and lessons on finding water make up a productive morning.

It's the afternoon when Gwenith's promise is broken, though not through her own actions. Indeed, she had been going over edible flowers once again.

But that didn't help a bit when she was sought out by the pack. It was one of those years where the pack would go around and intimidate the younger, weaker tributes. Some years they would just stand back and only sneer at those who came near or made an obvious blunder. This year they were circling around the training centre and mocking those not in their own pack.

What makes matters worse is that the pack of the Thirteenth Hunger Games is the largest yet at an impressive seven members. While normally at a default total of four people it is generally an unspoken sort of rule that if a tribute portrays notable power and a skill the Careers can benefit from then then will have a spot in the pack. Unless, per Olga Machete's firm orders, they come from District Six.

That's why when the pack come over to mock Gwenith she finds herself faced not only by those from One and Two, but also the muscular whaler boy from Four, the silent lumberjack from Seven and the brash, crass cowboy from Ten.

It is nothing she hasn't heard for years prior so she is able to mostly just ignore them. But in the Hunger Games, the threats are very real and so it takes all of the years of experience Gwenith has spent enduring bullying to hold back all of her tears from leaking out.

But nothing can help her when Cleopatra, the leader of this year's pack, steps forwards.

"Pathetic. What happened to your face?" the beautiful girl asks. "Maybe we can cut it open and let out all the air and pus trapped under there once the gong rings."

Gwenith tries to get up and leave the area right away, her Mentor's words ringing in her ears, but with seven people in the Career pack she finds all of her possible escape directions blocked off. Cleopatra takes the chance to continue to dish out all sorts of violent taunts.

"How nice of you to volunteer for the role of ending up impaled on my sword," Cleopatra says, her tone a blend between posh and sadistic. "Don't cry too much... or do, because soon you'll not be doing anything at all. You're only good to carry bricks around, like the slaves of my ancestors in Egypt."

On and on it goes for twenty minutes, at which point Cleopatra orders her alliance back to training. The girl is cruel, but smart enough to not waste too much time mocking her opponents when she and the rest can be gaining new skills.

Gwenith ends up fleeing the training centre and running off back to her room, hiding under the bed in a state of terror. She stays there, softly weeping, until Mizar finds her later that day.

"I'm gonna die," Gwenith whispers, shaking like an autumn leaf in the breeze as Mizar pressed a mug of hot chocolate into her hands. "They came after me... I made myself look pathetic! I can't possibly beat all seven of them..."

"You won't have to," Mizar assures her, trying his best to calm his tribute down. "A few days in the arena takes the 'bravado' right out of them. They went after almost everybody; so long as you flee the bloodbath they won't go for you specifically."

"They said they'd cut off my deformity to see what's underneath..." Gwenith whispers, her teeth chattering and her eyes wide. "T-t-t-they're gonna torture me!"

"Not if you can keep away from them," Mizar tells her, firm but gentle. "And as it happens, Hawklin hit things off with the boy from Ten. Either he can steer the pack away from you or perhaps it might create factions with the pack and make them destroy each other. So long as you run, and I mean _**run**_ , you won't have to worry at the start."

Gwenith doesn't return to the training centre that day, instead remaining in her room to cry it all out. When she runs out of tears she spends her time reading the grim, dismal hours away.

As it happens, her room had a book on edible plants and flowers upon the bedside table. She pours over it, soon able to quote it word for word if anybody would so much as lightly prompt her to do so.

* * *

The strong band together, keeping up the mockery on the second day of training up to when the individual sessions begin. Cleopatra leads them as before, finding an easy balance between tormenting the competition and training hard. She's nothing if not a seriously powerful contender for the Victor crown this year.

While the pack of seven keep on doing this, Hawklin continues to befriend the boy from Ten and soon an agreement is made. They ally and the boy from Ten, Bludd, works to gradually wear them down from within while Hawklin helps him along from the outside.

Gwenith doesn't know this, instead trying her hardest to improve her skills with the sickle. It's very much a work in progress, one she doesn't have anywhere near enough time to master.

She finds comfort with the rest of the weak and hopeless. Shrimp from Four and Prongs from Ten make ideal company to starve off loneliness in what in all likelihood are their final days alive. A 'loser alliance' is formed, not that they expect to last long in the arena. Not when there are so many mighty, formidable tributes this year.

They spend their remaining time before private training hanging out at the edible flowers station, balancing socialising with each other against being tormented by Cleopatra and her pack.

"It's strange isn't it?" Gwenith says to her allies, dare she even say _friends_ , in the final minutes before they are to be called to line up for their private sessions. "We finally find people who want us around in a horrible place where all but one die."

"That's what we call irony," Prongs says. "Not that it'll matter but... if I die, I hope one of you wins this thing."

"We're all dead," Shrimp adds, her hands gripping her curly hair. "But I hope at least one of us lasts past the first day."

"Or even the first ten minutes," Prongs says, wiping away a tear.

All of the loser alliance scores a two in training, some of the worst scores yet recorded. The mighty pack all score in the range of eight, nine and ten. Cleopatra alone scores a ten.

"That makes her the one to gun for when the pack turns on itself," Mizar tells Gwenith that night. "You're not her priority right now. All three of you need to run away at the start and find both high ground and water. I'll do what I can to get gear sent into the Games once that happens."

"Do you honestly think I can win this?" Gwenith asks, her hands covering her deformed face.

"Honestly?" Mizar says, thinking it over. "...No word of a lie, I truly believe there is a chance. But heed my words, you need to keep moving and not let them catch you until the numbers fall. Keep yourselves relevant like Shunt did last year. Give the audience a reason to root for you."

Gwenith isn't convinced, but she doesn't intend to disobey the first person who ever showed any care for her in her entire life.

* * *

The interviews are either a resounding success or a humiliating nightmare depending on if the tribute on stage was in the pack or one of the losers. Cleopatra talks proudly of her ancestors and of her family's fine additions to the beauty of District One, from marble buildings to a solid gold lake.

"You simply must come swimming there next summer," she tells Mortimer, ever so grandly.

Each of the seven members in the pack receives a standing ovation, all of them having plenty of fans. Even the Outlier recruits are seen as serious contenders this time around. Indeed, Hawklin isn't in the pack and still got plenty of cheers, as do the tough pair from Eleven.

When Shrimp, Gwenith and Prongs have their interviews the tech crew play the sounds of crickets chirping, as there is so very little applause going on.

"I work as a shrimper. It's nice..." Shrimp says, blushing terribly from stage fright.

"I like to read," Gwenith tries to say, drowned out by the howls of disgust from the spoiled audience.

"Um... I, uh..." Prongs is unable to stop herself from fainting, the emotion too much for her to bare.

In comparison, the scrappy boy from Twelve somehow finds himself getting received decently. Anything seems like a work of verbal art after the loser alliance's showings.

* * *

"I'm gonna die, I'm gonna die..." Gwenith whispers, sobbing as the night before the Games slowly drags on.

"You won't," Mizar says, holding his tribute close. "You need to run away at the very start. Tell your allies to head directly south of the Cornucopia. If that way is blocked, head past the tail of it instead."

Gwenith tries her best to calm down, but it's physically impossible. As fate would have it Shrimp and Prongs are in the same state that night as well. Mizar runs an idea by Museida, the gruff Victor agreeing easily. Sgt. Rilgar, watching over the Tens until they have their first Victor, is more firm and strict, but nonetheless relents.

He doesn't see the harm in letting a girl so obviously doomed spend her last night hanging out with her similarly doomed peers, so he agrees to Mizar's request. What does it matter, really? Not like Prongs is trying to escape.

Mizar soon has all three of the so called loser alliance gathered in Gwenith's room. The pitiful trio feel a sense of comfort from sharing each other's company, for what little it helps. He tells them they can stay together and to get plenty of rest, but his work is hardly done.

His natural instinct to help goes beyond the borders of Nine.

"I know the odds are not in your favour, but that doesn't mean you cannot win. I somehow won, Pliny won by sleeping, Baron survived when five minutes longer under that sun would've killed him, Duke survived living off of the blood of bats... you're stronger than you think and braver than you feel," he tells then, firm. Somebody has to be the one to help them believe in themselves. "Gwenith, I meant what I said, you can win this. But on the off-chance I am mistaken, and if Hawklin dies too... Shrimp and Prongs, I would love to see you again. Stay close and work to keep one another alive. Your odds will always be higher when you're together. Promise me you'll stay close and not take needless risks."

"We promise," the girls says in perfect union.

"Then, until the morning, my job is done," Mizar says. "I never sleep the night before the Games, so if you need me don't hesitate to come and find me. I'd certainly not blame you three."

The three are left alone, faced with what they all believe not even deep down to be their final night alive. How can a trio of losers overcome a pack of seven people and the other fourteen tributes who are all bigger and stronger than they are? Even the little girl from Eight scored a six and has at least forty pounds on them!

They end up sharing stories with each other, trying to hold back the darkness of night and death with the tiniest candle hope and a smile.

"I always wanted to make candles for a living. Pretty candles shaped like all kinds of things.. people, animals, buildings... is that stupid?" Gwenith asks.

"I don't think so," Shrimp says. "Sometimes I wish I was more than a shrimper. I sometimes wish I was able to be a dancer. I'd love to learn ballet, it's lovely."

"If you get out of here then I hope you can," Prongs says. "As for me... no, it's stupid..."

But, at the insistence of her fellow losers the girl from Ten relents and admits her own little dream, one she's certain will never ever happen.

"I'd like to fly," said the thirteen year old in a quiet voice.

* * *

"You can do this," Mizar says on the roof of the tribute building when the Games are mere hours away. He tries to remain unaffected when Hawklin sneers at him on the way past. Mizar doesn't even try to make an excuse. "Repeat it as many times as you have to. You. Can. Do. This."

"I can do this," Gwenith repeats in a soft whisper. "I can do this."

On the sickening ride to the arena on the hovercraft she keeps mumbling this phrase, though when Shrimp and Prongs join in it becomes 'we can do this'. They all quieten down, trembling, when the pack and two of the Peacekeepers on guard tell them to shut the hell up.

"I like underdogs. What's the harm?" a third Peacekeeper mumbles, it being his first day on the job.

He receives a dope slap to the head by one of his superiors and is told to shut up.

* * *

After all the complaints from both viewers and the President over the previous arena being too dark the Gamemakers had decided that brightening things up was the way to go. When Gwenith sees the arena she is relieved to see that, if nothing else, she won't die in a horrible, dark cavern.

The relief becomes the tiniest glow of hope, hope she is unsure she is wise for having, when she spots Shrimp and Prongs either side of her and gets a good look at the terrain of the arena.

It's a massive, sprawling meadow. Crisp, vibrant green grass under a gorgeous summer sky with hundreds of thousands of flowers spreads out in in all directions, every colour of the rainbow represented. It's wide and spacious, the only other notable features being large apple trees scattered thinly around the terrain. Two grand lakes exist, not that the tributes can see them at the Cornucopia.

One good look at the flowers and Gwenith recalls her training. They won't starve to death.

Seeing Cleopatra and brutish Osmund from Two several pedestals away reminds her she's not remotely safe despite the fortunate arena terrain this year.

When the gong rings Gwenith shouts for her allies to run and flees for her life into the flower filled meadow without looking back. In an instant Shrimp and Prongs are running alongside her, the trio sprinting with desperation in their eyes. They clear the first hill and exit the fray, scrambling in pure panic, right as the mayhem begins in earnest behind them.

The other twenty one tributes run into the bloodbath and the power of a seven member Career pack – one third of the bloodbath participants – becomes extremely evident to the nation.

Cleopatra lands the first kill, breaking the neck of the girl from District Twelve. By the time the dead girl slumps over Grandiose has finished beating the life out of the boy from Three with his bare hands, the once genius boy sprawled in a bruised, bloody heap against his launch pedestal.

The boy from Five duels against Bud from Seven, blade to blade, the duel cut short when the Five boy himself is cut badly across the back with a sword by Rita from Two.

The pair from Six guard one another as they run in and out, only to get slaughtered by Osmund from Two. By now, it's an enforced tradition for Two to always kill Six first. Olga is very insistent on this.

On and on the carnage goes until the girl from Seven stops twitching, missing an arm and a leg. By then the only battle left is between Hawklin and Shipper from Four. Bludd makes his move, shouting that he sees somebody over a hilltop lugging away two big backpacks. While the rest of the pack look away Hawklin gains advantage and leaves Shipper with his face split open. He's cleared the first hill north by the time Bludd's diversion is over.

"He was weak anyway. Hardly of our status," Cleopatra says to her allies as she pops open a container of water, glancing at Shipper's body in disdain. "Certainly not of _mine_."

With six members left in the mighty pack and a scattered total of seven Outliers there are clearly a lot more Games left to be played. It's a game Cleopatra refuses to stop playing, leading her allies out after a mere hour of rest and leaving Bludd as a guard.

Five minutes later Hawklin returns to get a good share of loot from Bludd.

"Won't they know it's missing?" he asks, more curious than anything else.

"There's tons of stuff and Cleo didn't take the time to count everything up. I doubt they will," Bludd says. "Saw our District Partners and the partner of the prick you killed go south. Gonna follow?"

"Why bother?" Hawklin says. "They won't last. I'll be north."

Hawklin leaves for real this time, ratings for the Games at an all time high and the fear of the tributes just as high too.

* * *

Gwenith learns the issue of a wide, open arena like this flowery meadow by the time the first night arrives. One that presents a very serious security risk for her loser alliance.

There is nowhere to hide. They could be spotted from miles away.

"What do we do?" Shrimp asks, wringing her small hands. "They'll catch us if we can't hide..."

"Well, we've already lasted longer than all of us thought," Prongs mumbles, sitting down as though she's ready to await her death.

Gwenith is at a loss, but not so willing to give up. She promised her Mentor she'd try and, damn it, she's not breaking her word to the man who stands out as the first person to give a damn about her. So she keeps her allies walking and looks out for somewhere to hide. A cave, a fissure, a small tunnel, anything.

All the while she and her allies see that their time spent on edible fruits and flowers is paying off. They know exactly which of the seemingly endless supply of flowers are safe to eat. They won't starve.

Eventually they come across one of the apple trees sparsely spread around the arena. Actually, they saw it from miles away but reaching it took time. The climb it after a few false starts and falls, ready to wait out the night.

Waiting and praying that nothing will come after them.

Elsewhere in the arena the pack of five spot the boy from Twelve from three miles away and chase him through the night, with Cleopatra finally landing the kill shortly before dawn. It's not quick or pretty.

District Twelve lose again, but ironically the death of their boy leaves exactly that many tributes that are still alive.

* * *

The losers encounter their first real problem on the third day. Or at least, a problem more substantial than being in the arena in the first place, that is.

With the main pack having power, Hawklin gradually being able to steal from them and the losers being a trio, it leaves two stragglers lacking any allies or sponsors at all. The stout boy from Eight is one of these tributes, the other being the girl from Eleven.

Having nothing in the world besides his clothes and a belt of knives he grabbed at the Cornucopia he's suffering starvation, oblivious to the edible nature of the flowers around him. Seeing the trio of the hands down weakest tributes in the Games he makes the choice to impress sponsors using his knives.

The girls were going to die anyway, weren't they?

That's how he tries to justify it as he barrels towards them. Having no weapons and only several big, red apples in hand from the apple tree the losers are quick to flee. But desperation can drive a boy to run for longer than his normal limit and so it becomes impossible to evade the boy from Eight, Needle. Even if they did pull ahead he'd spot them from miles away.

"What do we do?" Shrimp asks between frightened sobs.

"Run!" Gwenith squeals, pale faced.

"He's catching up!" Prongs wheezes.

The breakthrough is both unexpected and sudden. Gwenith tosses an apple back at the boy with all her, admittedly not amazing, might in hopes it may slow him down a little. Instead the apple, heavy and ripe, smacks Needle on the nose hard enough to draw blood and almost break it. As he pauses to howl in pain the girls know what has to be done under the setting sun.

Tributes would die from being stoned with rocks and pebbles over the decades, but this marked the only time a tribute was literally apple'd to death. Having been the one to land the final hit with a particularly big and rough apple it's Gwenith who has to live with being a murderer.

For however long that might be.

The trio feel awful, but with a belt of knives to share out between themselves they also feel a little safer. The water sponsored to them after the deed is done also helps with lessening guilt, slightly.

Very slightly.

* * *

From miles away the losers see the pack break on the fifth day in the arena, all perched carefully in another apple tree. With so many allies the Career pack is safe from harm, but have very few targets. With no trace of the losers just yet and Bludd doing his part to subtly throw the pack off of Hawklin's trail their only other possible target to hunt for is the girl from District Eleven.

They find her an hour or two after noon and show no mercy. The girl is strong, perhaps the strongest tribute to come out of Eleven since the Games started, but six on one is too much to ask of anybody. It's little surprise when the tall girl lays in a bloodied heap amongst the flowers in the meadow.

Though perhaps it's a surprise that she has left Grandiose with two less fingers and Rita clutching her bloodied hip in pain.

From their perch miles away Gwenith and the losers see the pack break into an argument that grows ever more volatile as the minutes pass by. They cannot hear the shouts from so far away, of course, but they can certainly see that a problem has arisen.

Osmund and Rita are pissed that there are too many allies and too few targets to hunt for, especially mad that the losers and the big guy from Nine have been evading them. Cleopatra and Grandiose brush them off, more concerned with having numbers and claiming the stragglers will be found eventually, especially as they can be seen from miles away.

Bludd tries to side with the Ones and lie that he thinks he saw somebody over a hill two miles East – he didn't – but is told to shut his mouth by Osmund, the boy ever angrier.

Bud just stays silent, being mute. If he could speak he would probably say he thinks the pack need to get a God damn grip.

The pack soon get into an altercation, one that has Bludd jogging off in search of Hawklin and Bud casually walking away with a shake of his head. The Ones and Twos part ways, all besides Cleopatra with at least one or two nasty cuts.

Just like that it becomes a Hunger Games filled with many smaller alliances. The losers, the Ones, the Twos and Hawklin and Bludd.

Bud is alone, but enjoys the silence. He also enjoys swiftly breaking the neck of the fox mutt sent his way that night, not breaking a sweat.

* * *

Disaster falls on the sixth day when a snake in the grass bites Prongs. She falls prone, whimpering from the nasty, painful venom starting to spread within her. None of the losers know a thing about poisons and antidotes, but they correctly assume Prongs has thirty hours left at best.

No antidote is sent in, so the choice is either find one or leave Prongs to die.

Things get worse when Bud spots the weak trio from a mile away and heads towards them, axe in hand. Gwenith scrambles away, but Bud feels fine over simply taking two of the trio out. Not like the other will get far on her own.

He has no issues when he gets near and sees one girl is poisoned and the other points a single knife at him.

He does, however, have an issue when Gwenith – who had gone over the hill and circled around behind him – frantically lunges and sinks two knives deep in his back. Fear and desperation power a girl up, after all.

Bud had been carrying an antidote he found at the Cornucopia, one that turns out to be exactly what Prongs needs. The girls weep, relieved and scared, having survived another day in the meadow.

* * *

"Don't go near it," Gwenith says, gulping. "That's a tracker-jacker nest."

The hive is up in an apple tree, buzzing with life and potential causes of death. Gwenith has seen those nasty wasps in Nine and seen what they have done to field workers who went too far out and got far too careless. She makes her allies steer clear of the nest, telling them of the dangers in the hive.

Shrimp and Prongs are glad for her advice, having both been about ready to storm the apple tree for the fruits in the branches. No apple is worth death.

Hunger and pain can do things to a person's mind, however, and that's why Osmund finds himself fleeing for his life and abandoning hungry, hurt Rita to the wrath of the evil wasps. She'd only wanted an apple, just one.

The losers hear the Career girl's screams from far away and make an extra note to keep an eye out for tracker-jacker nests.

They spot seven before the day is done.

* * *

The eighth day brings about a skirmish at one of the two lakes. The losers had been gathering water to use with their iodine tablets Bud had been carrying previously when they are flanked from both sides.

Cleopatra and Grandiose on the left.

Hawklin and Bludd on the right.

The trio are seconds away from wetting themselves and screaming for mercy when the Careers and the tough Outliers ready their weapons, facing each other instead.

"Take out the bigger threats," Cleopatra tells her fellow Career. "Those three can't fight, but these two can. Think long term, like my ancestors."

"Understood," Grandiose says, his grip upon his mace tightening.

Hawklin and Bludd stand their ground, weapons at the ready. Whether it's simple pragmatism or a one time showing of District loyalty Gwenith doesn't know. All she knows that Hawklin tells her to get out of there and she obeys without delay.

She, Prongs and Shrimp do not dare look back at the cries, yells, shouts and clashing of blades and other weapons fills the air behind them.

If they had, the images of Bludd being decapitated by Cleopatra right as Grandiose is gutted by Hawklin would have probably drove them mad by sundown.

The losers only allow themselves to focus on fleeing through the flower filled meadow, tears spilling down their faces. They know all too well that all it takes for them to die is Cleopatra deciding to chase after them. They'd never be able to outrun her with such a small head start.

As it happens, however, Cleopatra decides to take a few moments to catch her breath and then chases after Hawklin. She knows the losers won't pose her any sort of threat, so it makes sense to take out the tougher tribute first. With a battle cry in the name of Anubis, she pursues Hawklin.

She only loses him when several fox mutts get between them, the Gamemakers wanting to draw things out a bit longer.

* * *

Day nine is Mizar's ultimate test as a Mentor, a test of just how far he would go to help a tribute under his care.

He watches the screens, quaking from nerves, and keeps a constant track of where each of the six remaining tributes are located. All of them cause him awful paranoia, even his own pair as he simply cannot read minds. That's not a Mentor's job, and hopefully not a job in the Capitol either.

Hawklin has settled down in an apple tree, tending to his wounds with bandages and eating apples. Presently, he's doing fine and is in no need of any help. Not that Mizar can really get him anything with the sponsor funds donated to him at the moment.

Cleopatra runs across Osmund, the boy from Two nursing a fox bite, but no fight breaks out. The beautiful, formidable girl from one convinces him to restart their alliance due to the fact they are outnumbered. They head out to hunt together, moreso focused on finding Hawklin than the 'cannon fodder.

Mizar's heart stops as he sees the trio come across a snake. They kill it just fine with their knives, but not before it bites Gwenith in the ankle. In an instant his control monitor, hooked up to her tracker, starts to go haywire as the poison begins to spread throughout her body. This time there is no miracle of finding an antidote on a fallen tribute. There is nowhere near enough sponsor money left to send in an antidote.

The item is on the list but he is ten thousand caps short.

Unless everybody but Gwenith drops dead in the next twelve hours she will die, no question about it.

"I'll keep an eye on her," Mags promises him from her own control monitor in the mentor area. "She's been a big help to Shrimp so far. I owe her for that."

Mizar thanks her, his voice rapid-fire as he frantically throws on his coat and tears out to the only place where he will be able to find a sponsor.

The sponsor square, the one in the gaudy gardens of the Capitol.

The issue becomes blatantly obvious after roughly five point nine seconds. Nobody particular wants to sponsor the 'ugly creature' from Nine when the beautiful young woman from One is still there and, to a somewhat lesser degree, the muscular boy from Two.

It's all Mizar can do to keep trying and not strangle the prejudiced, loathsome Capitolities. He keeps his temper in check just fine in the end, but time ticks by without a sponsor being found. All the while the screens that show the live broadcast of the Games display Gwenith's suffering to the nation.

Mizar's heart breaks at the sight, but it does at least tell him he's not out of time yet and neither is Gwenith herself.

It's only when he allows himself a fifteen second break to grab a bottle of water that he manages to find a women around his age who is willing to give Gwenith a chance. But the ten thousand Caps won't come free, nor cheap.

"What would you do for my money?" the woman asks, admiring her reflection in a hand mirror. "I don't see her as a Victor, so I'd need something in return for this."

"I can pay it back," Mizar tells her, desperate. "I can't sponsor her myself, it's a rule, but I can give you the money back as soon as the Games end."

"Hmmmm... not bad, but not really what I am looking for," she says, a devilish sort of smirk on her face. "But, perhaps there is another way that you could convince me to part with the money and keep the beast alive."

"I'd do anything," Mizar says, honestly.

The ninth day of the Thirteenth Hunger Games isn't just the day that Cleopatra and Osmund start a four hour long chase after Hawklin, the boy keeping away from them with impressive speed.

It is also the first occurrence of what will later become known as Victor Prostitution. Mizar leaves the sponsor square feeling like even a thousand showers can't cleanse his soul of what he has just been through and how utterly _wrong_ it felt.

He also leaves with ten thousand caps, and a 'generous bonus' of two thousand more.

He makes it back to his mentoring station with an hour to spare, the antidote bought and sent down to his suffering tribute. Shrimp proves herself as a loyal ally, not hesitating to save Gwenith for even a moment. Mizar let out a deep, haggard breath as his station shows Gwenith's vitals stabilising. In an instant she looks much better on screen.

But now the money is gone and she's on her own. With prices getting higher, the leftover two thousand caps cannot buy her anything.

He saved her and it was worth it. He thinks this thought over and over again.

"What's wrong Mizar?" Mags asks, her gaze looking between her own tribute and the original Victor.

"I don't want to talk about it. Just... I don't," Mizar says, sick on the inside.

He doesn't sleep at all that night.

* * *

Hawklin ran far, but eventually even he has to stop running and start fighting. By then the Careers are worn out, their advantage lessened enough for him to have a chance at fighting them. A chance he won't waste.

He dies after a long, gruelling half hour duel. By that point he's left Cleopatra and Osmund scratched, cut and bruised all over. The Careers pant tiredly, knowing that in hindsight they had vastly underestimated this boy. Their meagre medical supplies they had with them do nothing to cease the pain, merely quell the blood seeping from the cuts.

Both remember how Randolphus was weakened by blood loss the year before and know to take steps to avoid this befalling them.

"Who's left now?" Cleopatra asks, still getting her breath back.

"Hmm... just those three pitiful girls," Osmund says, just as tired as the powerful woman from One.

"Shouldn't be hard at all for either of us to take them out. I give them thirty seconds in a three on one fight against either of us," Cleopatra remarks, her confidence rising.

"Agreed, they're pathetic," Osmund says as he quickly wraps a bandage around his left arm. "Let's take a break. After that we can-URK!"

Osmund never finishes his sentence nor gets to join the final hunt. Cleopatra is correctly aware of how the loser alliance cannot fight very well and that being outnumbered no longer matters with the big boys dead. She knows if she gets close to them she wins.

Cleopatra sets off, trying to find her last three opponents. The corpse of her ally is left crumpled and forgotten already.

Six miles away the loser alliance huddle together, afraid from the cannons they heard and wondering who their last opponent will be.

When the anthem confirms Cleopatra is still out there and surely on her way to kill them it becomes hard to hide the hopeless sobs and frightened hiccups.

They resolve to keep moving and at least delay the inevitable battle by a few hours.

* * *

For two days Cleopatra stalks around the meadow, assured of her victory but impatient over how long it is taking to find any trace of the trio. She starts to wonder if they may end up dying from the elements or the mutts and leave her as Victor by default. The thought makes her move faster and search harder.

For two days the loser alliance walk, sharing stories and what few happy memories they can recall. Most memories are of each other, funnily enough. They accept their fates and say they were glad to have met each other, having come to see each other like family.

Like sisters.

* * *

Cleopatra spots them from two miles away on the twelve day and is quick to make a beeline for them. The landscape makes it easy for the losers to see her coming, but the lack of a surprise attack doesn't help them. They know they cannot beat her in a straight up fight, so they turn and run away.

They know they won't get far before Cleopatra catches up to them or the Gamemakers use some kind of a trap to force them together. Only the Capitol's love of the predator chasing the prey keeps their fleeing being tolerated.

They pass by a tree, one that Gwenith knows for a fact has a tracker-jacker nest in he branches. In the time it takes Mizar to mutter a quick prayer for his tribute Gwenith manages to form a final plan.

The last stand of the losers.

"We only get one chance at this," Gwenith tells her sisters in all but blood. "Whatever happens... we're together until the end."

"Together," Prongs and Shrimp reply.

They all reach out, holding hands tightly. None among them expect the plan to work, but at least this way they can die and be able to say they tried.

Well, assuming anything lays on the other side of the curtain at least.

Cleopatra smirks at the way the losers held hands and stand still. She figured it was a final display of friendship before they faced their deaths. Not like she was going to judge for that. If it made their final moments happier, what did it matter? She knows she wins either way.

She pauses for a brief moment, shielding herself when the losers began throwing things her way. Seeing it's only rocks, most of which came nowhere near her and simply hit the tree trunk and the branches above, makes her laugh.

She should have known that the losers wouldn't be able to fight her.

She's right.

But the way the losers are fleeing again and the furious buzzing that fills her ears tells her that something else is more than able, and willing, to fight her.

Cleopatra's agonised screams fill the arena as the nest falls after being hit by Shrimp's final rock. She finds herself swarmed by hundred and hundreds of horrible genetically engineered wasps. As she falls to the ground, bloated and horribly disfigured from the many, many stings the Capitolites flinch away and suddenly start to see that, perhaps, the beast from Nine isn't quite so beastly after all.

At least, when put into a direct comparison anyway.

* * *

"We're the only ones left," Gwenith says as she sits upon a flowery hilltop in between Shrimp and Prongs, watching the sunset.

"How did this happen?" Shrimp asks, feeling confused. "They all hated us, called us worthless and pathetic. We're the losers, how did we win?"

"I mean, I don't mind it," Prongs says. "I... I know it can only end one way, but we won. Our alliance won, sisters."

"...I guess we did," Gwenith says, starting to lightly smile. "...I think we won because people saw us as worthless. There was always somebody who was more worth the killers' time."

She's right, of course. With the pack of seven having in-fighting and working hard to take out the strongest of their foes it left the losers with a list of threats that was a lot shorter. Even when they were cornered by the lake they had been deemed so weak as to not be worth killing. So allegedly weak that Cleopatra had killed Osmund pre-maturely, assuming him as her final true threat. Only Needle and Bud had come close, both falling due to either a number advantage or being snuck upon behind... and some luck for the losers, too.

But they know it'll be goodbye soon. No other tributes are left besides them. Only one of them can go home, not all three. But Gwenith won't kill her sisters. Shrimp won't kill her sisters. Prongs won't kill her sisters.

"How do we decide this?" Gwenith asks. "I don't think I can hurt you two."

Prongs and Shrimp feel the same. For a while they sit quietly, watching the beautiful sunset and wondering what to do. Surely the audience are getting annoyed by now. Surely they're howling and whining for blood.

"Maybe we should just let the arena decide," Gwenith says as she stands up. "Just... lay down our weapons and walk away. May the best loser live longer than the others."

Shrimp and Prongs agree. And so, the losers lay down their knives in a pile never to be touched again. They all embrace tightly, sharing one tearful and loving hug amongst the girls they have each come to see as family.

They walk away in three different directions under the golden sunset, fighting the urge the look back. They know it's the last they'll see of each other and they ended things as great as they possibly could have.

The losers, in the end, were the winners.

A massive thunderstorm is unleashed that night, the rain hard and the lightning formidable. It's a true hell on earth as the storm wrecks havoc upon the arena, destroying many of the flowers that were once blossoming ever so plentifully.

When the sun rises on the thirteenth day the sole survivor of the twenty four tributes slowly walks out of the Cornucopia, having spend the night huddled under blankets and laying upon a rubber mat.

Gwenith lived to see the most beautiful sunrise of all.

* * *

Gwenith is quiet on the train ride home, missing her sisters dearly. She won against all the odds, but she has no idea at all what will come next in her life. Especially as the Capitol found the ending of the Games a boring, far cry from the gory endings they love the most.

But a small faction insist that the emotion and drama was a wonderful thing to witness live. They claim it was the best Games yet.

Even her fans, however, wish that Gwenith's deformity could be removed without killing her in the process.

"Feeling ok?" Mizar asks. He's not moved away from his new Victor ever since they boarded the train home. "Anything I can do? Just name it, I'll get it done."

"...I want Shrimp and Prongs back," Gwenith says, quietly.

Mizar cannot raise the dead, but he can at least keep them close. After all, a picture of Sophie is inside his wallet at that very moment. The girl who made the day at the training centre somewhat bearable all those years ago.

"I can't bring them back," Mizar says, apologetic. "But I can be here in their stead. I can make sure you're never alone again... I can, in a sense, help keep them close."

Mizar passes Gwenith a locket. When it is opened, she sees a picture of herself sharing a group hug with her fallen sisters. Her eyes water, tears welling up.

"Thank you," she says, fighting the urge to cry. "Mizar... thank you. You saved me. I don't know how you did it, but... you saved me."

She sobs, burying her face into his shoulder as hugs her mentor tightly, thanking him over and over again. Mizar is more than happy to return the hug and tell her she is very welcome, that he truly regrets nothing.

He decides not to tell her exactly how he afforded that antidote.

He focuses on the grateful girl who idolises him. At long last, after over a decade of defeat, he did it. He has a Victor now. A Victor!

"Do you want me to talk to those girls who sent you to the arena?" Mizar asks when the train is almost ready to pull into the station back in District Nine. "What they did was so wrong. It's nauseating they would do something so vile."

Gwenith considers this. Even with how she met her sisters and befriended Mizar, the fact is that the terrible trio wanted her dead and hated her enough to send her to the arena to accomplish this... all because of how she looked.

She tries to hate them... but after the arena, she finds she no longer gives a damn what those horrid little monsters think of her.

"No thanks," Gwenith says. "They're not worth it. I'd rather spend my time with the hero of District Nine."

"Who might that be?" Mizar asks.

"You," Gwenith says, smiling.

Mizar absolutely did not start sobbing after he heard that, thank you very much. No way, no sir, he certainly did not.

* * *

Gwenith may have moved on from what those girls had done to her, content to never again cross paths with them... but the thing is, fate sometimes has a very twisted and cruel sense of justice.

Maraline, Kernelly and Norette were coincidentally reaped for the Fourteenth, Fifteenth and Sixteenth Hunger Games. Gwenith chose forgiveness, trying her best to save the trio who had been perfectly willing to send her to die as a cruel, thoughtless prank.

It didn't help one bit in the end.

Maraline was impaled within a spike pit by the Cornucopia.

Kernelly was left crumpled by a huge boy from Eleven.

Norette puked off her pedestal, triggering the landmines.

* * *

"You know, now that I think about it, I recall this girl being mentioned in a recap once," Peeta said as he continued looking at Gwenith's face imprinted at his feet. "I think she got the second lowest score ever recorded for a Victor. Just a two."

"Really? A two? ...So, you mean somebody scored a one and _won_?" Katniss said, somewhat bemused. "Here I was thinking it was a wonder that boy who scored a three ended up winning."

"I don't think it really counts in Spud's case, given who his last opponent was," Peeta replied, awkward at the mere thought of the sixty sixth Games. "Nice to see Gwenith rose above the odds, whatever her reasons for volunteering were."

"Makes you wish they went over more of the old Games in school instead of showing the first and then focusing on those past the sixtieth," Katniss said, before pausing for a moment. "...Actually, no, it doesn't. The less Games, the better."

"True that. Still, it feels important to remember the actions of the other tributes, living or dead," peeta said as he and Katniss walked on to the next Victor along the sidewalk.

The face of a perky girl with luscious, shoulder length hair looked back up at them. She seemed energetic, practically bouncy by the look in her eyes.

"Crystal McCree," Peeta read. "Huh, I was wondering when we were going to see the next Career."

"She seems pretty happy for somebody who went into the arena and killed people," Katniss remarked. "Can't imagine why. I mean, I've never heard much of anything about this one."

* * *

That was a fun, if emotional, chapter to write! Victor prostitution, an unwilling Volunteer tribute, the losers somehow triumphing... suffice to say, plenty was going on here. I found Gwenith a lot of fun to tell the story of. I've always had a sort of natural attachment to the underdogs of society – so, basically, I have the opposite view of President Snow lmfao – and her tale of finding some form of hope amongst fellow losers and banding together against the strong and the scary made for a compelling tale in my author's view. Plus, Mizar being a Team Dad gives me life. Anyway, hope you guys liked thus one. Stay tuned for more!

* * *

 **Stats**

 **District 1:** Peridot Gaudy (8th Games)

 **District 2:** Baron Overwhill (4th Games), Runa Peace (7th Games), Olga Machete (10th Games)

 **District 3:** Honorius Perthshire (5th Games)

 **District 4:** Museida Selkirk (3rd Games), Mags Flanagan (11th Games)

 **District 5:** Shunt Gaspar (12th Games)

 **District 6:** N/A

 **District 7:** Pliny Aransio (2nd Games), Fir Buzz (9th Games)

 **District 8:** N/A

 **District 9:** Mizar Aldjoy (1st Games), Gwenith Rosebud (13th Games)

 **District 10:** N/A

 **District 11:** N/A

 **District 12:** Duke Saint-Rose (6th Games)


	15. Crystal McCree

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Hunger Games. They belong to Suzanne Collins.

 **Note:** No sense stalling on updates when there are dozens more Victors to write about! At the rate I am going it should be ever so simple to reach the first Quell by Easter. Let's see if I actually pull that off, or if I'll have to look and see how very wrong I was. Until then, onto the fourteenth Victor!

* * *

"Apparently these Games were one hundred percent indoors. I think I remember that fact from a school lesson.. I mean, very vaguely. Don't quote me on that," Katniss said, looking at Crystal's imprinted face. "First time that happened?"

"I don't know for sure, but I don't have any reason to think you're wrong," Peeta replied. "I think it was something like a temple, if that reminds you of anything?"

"Could be. I zoned out for most of that lesson, more concerned with starving to death after school," Katniss said, dryly. "Seems like she had a good time if her perky smile is anything to go by."

"Question is, is she forcing the smile or not?" Peeta asked.

The couple stood in silence, paying some respect for the Victor whom they had never met nor known of. No more words needed to be spoken, not that the pair from Twelve had much they could really add at that moment.

* * *

 **14th Annual Hunger Games**

 **Name:** Crystal McCree

 **Gender:** Female

 **District:** 1

 **Age:** 18

 **Kills:** 3

* * *

 **THE ADVENTURE OF THE COOKIE JAR!**

Not all of District One are nobles from the Flawless Estate or wealthy owners of business and jewellery mines. The notion of everybody being rich is both impossible and far removed from reality.

The poorer people in the District – well, poor by the standards of One which is of course nothing like the standards of Twelve – spend their lives toiling away as staff in the factories of businesses of other people. That or down the gem mines.

That was how the McCree family made their living. Everyday Crystal, a little girl at the tender age of eight, would watch mama, dada and her four elder sisters leave the house to do their shift down at the mines. No matter how much little Crystal pleaded to come along and have a turn smacking the rocks with the pick axes she was always gently told no and left in the care of a babysitter.

Having recurring heart issues basically had her stuck in a quiet existence without any kind of adventure or real activities going on. Crystal insisted she felt fine and there was no reason to worry, but her family wouldn't hear of it.

Such was her life, being the coddled youngest daughter who craved rough and tumble adventure and only got given a cuddle or a teddy to hush her up. Good intent didn't give her any good adventure!

After being given her medication one winter afternoon and being laid down for a nap that she insisted she did not need Crystal began to plot. It was clear that she was never going to get the adventure she desired from other people. The poor eight year old feared she may grow to be as ancient as twenty and have no adventures under her belt.

It was clearly up to her to find her own thrills in life.

That was why the naughty girl snuck out of bed and tiptoed down the stairs while her babysitter watched TV, sobbing as the male lead ran into the rain to declare his love for the female lead.

Crystal gagged, disgusted by the prissy, trashy romance on TV and instead crept towards the kitchen. She remained undetected as she entered the room and spotted the cookie jar upon a shelf.

Sneaking around, wary that each step may be her last, she managed to make it to the other side of the kitchen, but that was where the true challenge of Crystal's first adventure lay in wait.

Climbing upon the kitchen counter.

Timing her attempt to coincide with the babysitter bursting into tears over the soap opera's 'big damn kiss scene' Crystal managed to haul herself upon the counter and, panting from the effort, take hold of the cookie jar.

With all the speed of a cheetah mutt she scampered off back to her room, clutching her prize, her heart pounding from the trouble she would be in if she was caught. By the time the babysitter looked back, having heard a small noise, Crystal was already gone and out of sight.

Despite the fact her chest was hurting a bit from the pounding of her heart Crystal nonetheless giggled in triumph, stuffing her face with her sugary treats until all that remained was the empty cookie jar and a small sea of crumbs.

Sure enough she got caught later on and given a very long time out, but her very first adventure had Crystal hungry for more thrills in the future.

And cookies. Always cookies.

* * *

 **THE ADVENTURE OF THE SCHOOL SKIPPING!**

Coming from a humble background Crystal did not have the chance nor opportunity to set foot anywhere near the Career Academy of District One, these days known as Gaudy High after the first Victor that District One ever had. Of course, that wasn't from a lack of trying...

Crystal attended a fairly basic sort of school in Town 45, deep within the boundaries of District One. Nothing stellar or fancy, but good enough to give a growing girl like her a decent education. With her condition keeping her in at playtime she had become close to her teachers, perhaps to the point of being a teacher's pet.

If she was to be trapped inside then why not take advantage to earn herself a free strawberry from the teachers every now and then?

But every teacher's pet has their days of misconduct and mischief and for eleven year old Crystal it's the day that the Victor of the previous Hunger Games comes by One on their Victory Tour.

Crystal doesn't like the killing, not really, but the sheer thrill and adventure tickles her in a way she just cannot describe. All the Victors so far are pure bred adventures and she'd spend ages bragging about her complete set of Victor action figures up in her bedroom to anybody who would listen.

She's gotten all of the figures of the past Victors signed so far. With a Runa Peace action figure in her schoolbag, she intends to make sure she has the complete set.

Well, complete until next year anyway. She hopes One gets a Victor soon. Sometimes she imagines that it may even be her.

But this was Two's year and Runa will be passing through the town very, very soon. One look at the clock tells her that has to be out of the classroom within the next five minutes if she is to have any hope of seeing her.

She has to get the next part just right.

"Miss Pearl, can I use the bathroom?" Crystal asks, her hand raised and her 'good girl voice' put on.

"Of course dear," Miss Pearl says, beckoning her favourite student to the door. "Don't take too long."

"I won't," Crystal promises as she heads to the door.

She means it, because if she has her way she'll be back in the class before anybody realises she even left school grounds.

The bathroom isn't visited. Instead Crystal takes a detour out the back entrance of the school and makes a mad dash for the fence at the edge. Her small size allows her to easily slot herself under it and make a run for the town.

They really should work on fixing up the old rickety fence, but Crystal never minded the way it let her sneak out of school so easily.

Crystal ran as fast as her legs could carry her down several streets until she eventually arrived at her destination. Gasping, wheezing and lightly choking she reached the crowd watching Runa come down the street standing upon the roof of a limo. It was the tradition of the day for the Victor to be shown off in as many places as possible, after all.

The crowd wasn't an issue to Crystal. Having attended this same event at the same street ever since the Games had begun she was keenly aware of when the car would hit the pothole in the road that had never been fixed by the road maintenance crew.

Right on cue the car hit the pothole and, as it did every year, came to a stop as the engine stalled. Despite her chest pains Crystal made her move and scampered right up the car, running under the left arm of the Peacekeeper she knew to be right handed and then right up towards Runa.

"Can you sign my action figure?" Crystal squeaked out, holding up the Runa action figure and a marker pen to the Victor, putting on her cutest face.

Despite the fact that, at the time, Runa had been dealing badly with PTSD and had missed her meds that morning, the powerful young women managed to suppress all the loathsome and painful feelings coursing through her.

She refused on principle to make a child feel bad.

Runa continued on the tour when the limo's engine was fixed five minutes later and Crystal headed back towards the school with a signed action figure and the knowledge of Runa's favourite colour (purple), food (lamb ribs), song (Mining Song #4) and District that was not her own (Seven).

"You were gone for a while," Miss Pearl later noted when Crystal retook her seat, panting in slight pain from all the running.

"When you gotta go, you gotta go," Crystal says, wheezing a bit.

All the running earns Crystal a trip to the school nurse and three days of bed rest, but she doesn't care. She has the full set of signed Victor action figures and no other kid in school was able to say the same.

All of this doesn't merely give Crystal a hunger for adventure. It gave her an outright starvation for it.

* * *

 **THE ADVENTURE OF THE REAPING OVERRIDE!**

Thirteen years passed with District One having only a single Victor. As popular as Peridot is amongst the Capitol and the citizens of One, the fact is that they have now been overtaken in Victor numbers by Two, Four, Seven and Nine. Nine of all places! While statistically their tributes always rank high in the Games, it wasn't saying much when this was a contest where every rank from second through to twenty fourth was really the exact same thing.

Crystal had watched plenty of brave, and sometimes admittedly monstrous, boys and girls from her home District die in the dangerous arenas year after year. Even her friend Cleopatra had fallen the year prior in a way that had forced Crystal to have to cover her eyes. Crystal had made notes on the causes of why the tributes from her District, aside from Peridot, had fallen during the Games. The Victor fangirl filled up several notebooks and eventually she came to a personal sort of conclusion.

She could do better and she knew just how to do it.

She settled down for a good sleep the night before the reaping, as always fussed over and her family making certain that she was alright. A little annoyed but nonetheless happy they cared about her, Crystal assured them as always she was alright and that her worst heart problems had stopped when she was fourteen, but her family were still the sort to worry about their youngest. Their little angel.

Crystal had spent her life thus far in two main 'modes'. Five percent was spent in adventure mode, sneaking out on all manner of goofy little quests to keep herself entertained. Ninety five percent was spent indoors under supervision and coddling from her family, shielded from danger and constantly protected.

Crystal knew they loved her, it was so obvious they did, but she wished they would accept she was growing up and that she'd be alright without constant supervision.

She wondered how long she would be put in a time out after she put her most daring plan in the history of her life into effect. The rough estimate was at least five years, but dammit if it wasn't worth it!

By the time of the Fourteenth Hunger Games it was a fact that District One was always able to provide two volunteers for the Games, with an occasional back-up or two just in case anything were to happen to the chosen tribute. They always had back-ups after the first Quell, but in these days it wasn't every year that they did.

This year there were three boys in line, with the chosen Volunteer being Jacinth Court. The cocky, brutally efficient sword fighter was more than happy to represent his District and, having been in training since he was twelve, felt quite sure of himself.

House Victory, desperate for a Victor and a chance to gain ever important status, had sunk quite the fortune of Caps into ensuring their daughter Harp was given the spot of the female tribute. Harp, being severely autistic and lacking combat training ever since she was deemed unfit to be a tribute back when she was twelve years old, doesn't quite understand what awaits her and why everybody states at her that day. All she knows is mommy and daddy are really mad these days and keep telling her to volunteer when the funny dressed man asks for somebody to do so.

All but her glory hungry parents can see she is sure to die. No back-up female tributes exist this year, so what can be done?

As the goofy escort reaped a girl from the fifteen year old section and called out for a Volunteer, fully expecting to get one, Harp tried to remember exactly what she was meant to say.

She remembered soon enough, but by that point somebody else from the crowd had shouted out the words that jogged her memory to begin with and made their way up towards the grand reaping stage, giving her a playful smile.

Hearing Crystal grandly introduce herself as the most brave and daring adventurer who ever lived in District One and telling a story – one Harp didn't quite see as being exaggerated – of her journey to claim rations for a starving family (actually buying bread for her family from the corner bakery) made Harp smile. This girl is far better at playing this game and Harp never really liked the 'Hungry Games' very much anyway.

Harp asks every so nicely if she can say bye-bye to the adventurous girl and the Peacekeepers allow it. She goes in to speak with her after Crystal's own family leave, full of despair and grief over what their wayward youngest has just done to herself. The shouting and sobbing of her family had left Crystal's perky smile a lot less wide than before.

"Good luck," Harp said, giving Crystal a big hug. "You've got this."

Despite the fury and horror of her family still ringing in her ears, Crystal couldn't help but feel happy that the pretty noble seemed to think she had a chance. Hadn't her Grandpa used to say noble's were always right? By the time the hugging stopped and Crystal was being taken to the train, she felt a bit better and much more focused on her goal.

She had never recognised that her Grandpa was being sarcastic all those years ago.

She didn't care either way, not when Harp had been so nice and given her a shiny new fedora to use as her tribute token.

* * *

 **THE ADVENTURE OF THE PRE-GAMES THINGIES!**

"Normally I'd ask what the hell you were thinking," Peridot later said to Crystal as she paced in front of her and Jacinth. "But honestly, as bad as a overriding a Volunteer would normally be the fact is you're stronger than Harp. I've know that girl all my life, she's so innocent and oblivious. She's like the only noble with a soul because she cannot conceive the idea of being mean."

"Ok, fuck you?" Jacnith said, looking slightly annoyed.

"You literally put rat poison in my soup when you were nine and almost got me killed," Peridot said, rolling her eyes. "Ok, I know all about your skills Jacinth. In fact, I know more about you than I actually want to know. I can work with what you bring."

"Naturally," Jacinth said, smirking. "Love me or hate me, fact is that I'm the strongest guy here."

"We'll see what the reaping recaps says... fuckwit," Peridot said, light and bitter. She ignored his offended scoff. "Crystal, you're an enigma to me. Tell me about yourself."

"My family are jewel miners and I love going on adventures!" Crystal declared, loud and proud. "I'm pretty handy with a bullwhip and despite the fact I may or may not have a few heart issues I-."

"Heart issues?" Peridot asked, staring. "...Are you really that stupid? You signed up and... you have heart issues?"

"I mean, they've not been really that bad in years..." Crystal said, awkwardly shrugging.

"Whoa, this is... damn," Jacinth couldn't help but shake his head as well, bewildered. "I mean, you're stronger than Harp was going to be anyway, but this is still a new low for girls from One. I mean, besides Dazzle in the First Games I guess."

"Everybody underestimates me," Crystal had said, glum. "Mama and dada always keep me inside, thinking I'm a delicate little thing who needs cuddles and care all the time. It's no life, not really. It's just existing... it's not really the same thing."

"So, what, you signed up for this deathmatch because...?" Jacinth trailed off, letting his question hang in the air.

"Well, it's an adventure isn't it?" Crystal replied, putting on a perky smile. "Honestly, I'm unlikely to make it past forty anyway. At least this way... if I die, it's during a thrilling adventure and not just laying around doing nothing."

Jacinth lost interest pretty quickly after that and Peridot fully expected that, realistically, Jacinth was the best prospect for a One victory – not that she had anything but the upmost contempt for the young man, as rat poison antics would often cause a bit of bias in that way – and soon stopped talking to Crystal.

The thing with Crystal was that her mind operated under very simple logic.

The more somebody told her she couldn't do something or clearly didn't think she was capable... she became all the more determined to prove them wrong.

That was why she stole the show in the parades by abandoning the chariot, instead moving onto the horse and playing the role of an excitable horse rider that'd make a kid from Ten's jaw drop.

It was why, when her role in the pack was taken away by the other three and given to the massive dock hand girl from Four that she smeared cream and chocolate sauce in their beds and made her own alliance with the power plant workers from Five.

It was why she pushed herself to her limit to score an eight, sheer determination guiding her towards her goal.

It was why, at her interview within the grand studio in front of thousands of Capitolites there to watch it live, she told a grand and exciting tale of how she had viciously battled a mutated monstrous plant to the death in order to save a grand arcadia from destruction.

[It was another exaggeration. It had been her removing a dandelion from the back yard, but nobody needed to know that part]

It was why she did not feel scared on the ride to the hovercraft, despite having 22-1 odds. She believed in herself to pull this off and that was really all she felt that she needed.

* * *

 **THE ADVENTURE OF THE BRUTAL BLOODBATH!**

Crystal took a deep breath as her launch pedestal clicked into place, bubbling with excitement for the fact her adventure was about to begin. Just one minute and the adventure of a lifetime would start.

It wasn't as if her lifetime was expected to be anything but short one way or the other, so unlike the wailing kids from Six either side of her she didn't feel afraid.

The fact the arena was an ancient Egyptian tomb also helped keep her feeling full of glee. An entirely indoor arena, it was something the Gamemakers felt quite proud of. Many corridors, several puzzles, tons of traps, a few particularly vicious Mummy Mutts roaming around the corridors and little in the way of vegetation and water growing around.

The Gamemakers expected it to be a vicious Hunger Games that would reward the strongest amongst the tributes.

The Outliers saw it as a pure hell on earth, what little hope many of them had quickly evaporating.

The Careers smirked, seeing this as exactly the sort of arena that they would be able to excel in.

Crystal was wide eyed and open mouthed, awed by the sight of the ancient tomb before her. The golden Cornucopia, the circular spike pit that surrounded it with stone walkways leading to the centre, the many corridors that led off into the dimly lit expanses of the tomb...

What an adventure that she would be having!

The gong rang and several of the weaker outliers scattered away down the corridors, deciding to live a little longer and not risk the carnage by the spike surrounded Cornucopia.

The dying wail of the girl from Six, killed by a dart trap built into a wall, was a clear warning to all that there were a lot of traps in the tomb and that running away aimlessly wasn't the way to win these Games.

Then again, it didn't stop the hoard of tributes who stuck around from charging into the fray in a desperate scramble for life sustaining supplies. Aside the large spike pit the central area of the tomb was devoid of traps, making all the running and trampling much less of a danger.

All the same, it wasn't a year of a tiny bloodbath by any means. The carnage begin in earnest as soon as Crystal grabbed hold of a bullwhip and the boy from Two threw the terrified girl from Nine down to the spike pit, where she died over three hellish hours.

"Oh snap, this isn't good," Crystal said, gagging at the sight of Jacinth restraining the boy from Six for the girl from Two to skewer with a lance.

In most years a girl from One could expect to be fine at the bloodbath, as they would have a pack of allies watching over them during the opening carnage. But having been shunted from the pack Crystal had no such luck. Indeed, as six people lay dead around her with a further corpse down a corridor and a dying girl in the spikes, Crystal knew the danger that she was in and what her first serious test was going to be.

Fighting her way back out of the fray, roughly elbowing the tall boy from Twelve to the spikes for an instant death in the process, she intended to make a run for the corridor she had spotted her allies from Five scampering down.

"Out of my way!" Crystal yelled, dodging past the girl from Three and leaping out of range of Water from Four's scimitar.

Crystal wasn't exactly a fighter. Indeed, she had only attended the training sessions at the academy that were open to the public and used a few personal work-out DVD's when home alone, so she could not match the physical power of the Careers. She was more like a 'quasi-Career' after all.

But her advantage was her whip which, while not lethal per-say, had plenty of range and left a really nasty sting. Such was how she struck Brimhurr from Two before the muscular girl had a chance to use her sword. It was also how she sent the boy from Seven backwards before he could even think of attacking with his axe.

It was how, despite her wheezing, she was able to knock the fancy spiked mace out of Gladiator's hand and send it right down the spike pit. No way would the boy from Two be getting his prized weapon back after that.

With a backpack full of supplies, a whip in hand and a fedora upon her pretty head Crystal stumbled away as best she could down one of the corridors, quickly losing the Careers by ducking behind a sarcophagus. They ran past, almost into a spike trap. The near fatal accident had them turning tail and heading back to the horn of plenty with much caution.

Crystal simply wriggled out of her hiding spot, tipped her hat to a camera and set off down the corridor nice and slow in search of her allies.

Twelve tributes died in the opening half hour of the Games that year, but much to Peridot's shock Crystal was not among them. On the contrary, she'd not taken a hit yet with her only issues being the fact she was looking exhausted already.

Before she could shrug and return to her comic book the sponsor phone began to ring.

* * *

 **THE ADVENTURE OF THE TRICKY RIDDLE!**

Crystal had found her allies before the anthem on the first night – displayed on the walls due to the lack of a visible sky - and shared out the supplies she had been able to grab. They carefully made their way through the corridors on the second day, all in good health. It seemed for a while that their alliance was going to do just fine.

But nobody is allowed to have things too easy in the arena and so before long, after turning back from the dead end they had reached, the trio were faced with a sphinx. The stone creature opened its eyes, staring coldly at the group. Volt and Charge from Five stepped back, intimidated by the beast.

Crystal just smiled her perky smile and greeted the sphinx with a fine hello.

"Answer my riddle," the sphinx said. "Get it right and you may pass on your way."

"And if we're wrong?" Crystal asked.

"I bet we'll be killed," Volt whimpered.

"The boy is correct," the sphinx confirmed. "Answer me this... they have not flesh, scales, feathers, fur, blood or bone. And yet, they still have fingers and thumbs of their very own. What are they?"

The sphinx's eyes glowed bright, like it was charging up an attack in case the wrong answer was given. Volt and Charge shrunk back, the sixteen year olds practically seeing their short lives flashing in front of their eyes.

Crystal, however, had begun to pace and think out her answer to the riddle. After all, what was a riddle but another type of challenge? It was a fact that Crystal loved a challenge.

"Ok, so I think all those things it doesn't have rule out pretty much everything that is alive," Crystal said as she paced back and forth along the short corridor. "In fact, bones basically rules out dead stuff like a spooky skeleton. Oh, but statues seem possible... but as if a sphinx would ever be so unoriginal. It's a matter of pride for them to make things hard, so says mama's old books."

The sphinx smiled, as if flattered by the praise given upon its kind. Mutt or not, it had some form of feelings, artificial as they may have been.

"It must be something not living, but not a person or animal... so, an object! But what? What?! Maybe a measurement as I know fingers of whiskey are a thing... but no, who ever heard of a thumb of whiskey? Maybe a thumb of gold, but I always thought it was a metaphor. No, it has to be something physical and non-living object, right? Right."

The sphinx looked a little bit dizzy from all of Crystal's pacing while Volt and Charge looked more confused than anything else.

"The only physical items I can think of that would have fingers and thumbs are gloves and mittens. But one has fingers and one has a large finger for all of one's digits to go in. Glove or mitten, glove or mitten... uhhhhhhh... oh! I recall a mitten sale was going on back home a month ago. That actually isn't relevant, but I wanted to bring it up anyway," Crystal said with a giggle.

The sphinx seemed to groan for a moment, as if slightly annoyed by all the stalling. Volt and Charge merely braced for death.

"Mitten sounds cute and cuddly, much more than glove does... but you're a mutt, and mutts are neither cute nor cuddly, so why could you make the answer something lovely like mitten? It could only make the correct answer a glove," Crystal declared.

"...That was far more complicated than it had any right being," the sphinx said as it moved away to let the tributes past. "Like, are you for real?"

"Yes I am," Crystal said, giving a cheeky wink as she led her allies further down the corridor. She paused when a cannon boomed throughout the tomb a moment later. "...More real now than whoever it was that just died."

She hadn't been there to see it, of course, but Basil from Eleven had just had his brain sucked out by one of the mummies patrolling the tomb.

* * *

 **THE ADVENTURE OF THE POUNDING HEART!**

On the third day Crystal's adventure took a turn for the worst. After finding out that her whip was useless against the mummy mutts and losing her ally Charge to a particularly nasty spike trap that came from the floor Crystal faced an issue she'd not faced since she was fourteen.

She kneeled over while midway down one of the uppermost corridors of the tomb, a heart attack suddenly striking her. She wheezed and choked, too breathless to scream. Volt had no idea what to do in such a situation, doing his best to provide a little comfort and make sure Crystal didn't fall and smack her skull against the stone walls.

"We need help!" he called out, freezing a moment later when he realised the Careers may have been able to hear him.

A minute passed by without the currently intact pack of four tributes coming by. In that time Crystal managed to feebly sit up and choke out a few words.

"Harp... help..." she wheezed. "Need... defibrillator...!"

As was normal for a District One tribute, Crystal had plenty of sponsors who felt interested in her. While Jacinth reaped the lions share of the money from the elites, the serious gamblers, the rich amongst his home District and the comic book businesses Peridot would admit to being a guilty pleasure of hers, Crystal had her own supports.

The lower class of District One, the smaller businesses within the Capitol, adventure novel writers whom Crystal has admitted to being a fan of and, of course, Harp.

It helps to have a noblewoman as your number one fan who has millions of caps to burn and no concept of hoarding money for future decades. Not when the girl who let her stay home for the summer is in trouble.

It's not fifteen seconds later that the requested item is sent down into the arena via one of the bigger slots in the walls. Volt hesitates for a moment, having lost his brother to the girl from One a few years prior, but the need for numbers on his side against the pack and how he honestly doesn't mind Crystal's company makes him suck it up and use the specialised defibrillator.

The shaken young adventurer sits up, scared from her close call but once again stable. Back home in her cushy living room in the Flawless Estate, Harp claps and cheers for the girl she wants to see come home. She's oblivious to the furious look in the eyes of her bitter family.

Whispering a touching thank you to her most loyal sponsor and her remaining ally Crystal recovers enough to keep on moving down the corridor, Volt supporting her as they go.

Crystal's heart attack was painful, but she feels like her heart is breaking even worse later that day when Volt falls victim to a deep pit trap and the adventurer girl is left all alone.

* * *

 **THE ADVENTURE OF THE DEADLY TRAPS!**

Just as the Capitol, and the Careers themselves, had expected from the start it turns out to be a year for the Career pack to win. After the willowy girl from Eight is taken down on one of the lower corridors the only tributes still alive at the end of the fifth day are the pack of four and Crystal.

"Shall we just fight it out now or go look for her?" Brimhurr asked, sounding fine with either outcome.

"Depends," Water said. "What do we know about her?"

"I've literally never had any encounter with her except when she sent my mace down a spike pit," Gladiator spat, still fuming over how he'd been forced to make do with a sword for games rather than his favoured weapon. "I'd like a rematch."

In the end the group asked Jacinth for what he thought of his District Partner, and he honestly didn't have particularly much to share.

"She's peppy and pretty mean with a bullwhip, but that's about it really," he said with a shrug. "Sooner or later the heart issues she mentioned are going to take her out, maybe before we can do a thing to her. But I say we go looking for her. She might even be coming back right now."

"Think she's high or low in the tomb?" Brimhurr asked, crossing her thick arms.

"Wherever there is more 'adventure," Jacinth said, already turning to leave the central area. "Let's go cut her up and then get the battle over with. The longer I go without caviar the worse I'm gonna be to deal with."

Jacinth was tailed by Water while the Twos headed off together, all with their blades gripped firm as they started the hunt for Crystal.

Their raised voices as they spoke had led Crystal right to them, hiding behind a nearby sarcophagus. After a moment of thought she decided to follow after the pair from Two.

In the hours that followed the pair had no idea that the light footed adventurer was behind them, waiting for the golden opportunity. She had surprise on her side, but that meant little when the Twos easily outclassed her in combat and had weapons actually intended for killing. At best, her whip caused painful welts.

Crystal had, by that point, figured out where most of the traps were located or at least knew the warning signs for when a trap was nearby. The Twos, however, knew no such thing. For example, they knew nothing of the dormant pit trap Crystal had seen the previous day.

When they drew near it Crystal decided it was time to be brave and make her move.

Brimhurr screamed as the whip struck her back and a moment later Gladiator yelled for much the same reason.

"If you want me then come get me!" Crystal teased, landing a further whip crack upon Gladiator and fleeing down the hallway.

The Twos had pursued her with speed and ferocity. It looked like they would catch Crystal more than once as her chest began to throb painfully again, but she kept on her way. It was lucky that the pit trap had not been very far away.

It was also lucky that Crystal was able to crack her whip at a jagged section of brick on the ceiling, using it to swing herself over the pit with an excited cheer. She landed fine, while the pair from Two activated the trap and were left hanging onto the edge a hundred feet above spikes with their bare hands.

A few cracks of the whip had this change, five becoming three and Crystal feeling her heart start to break a little more. A quick use of the defibrillator had her up and moving again, but still not feeling her normal perky self.

She kept reminding herself that all the badass adventurers from mama's books had a bit of a low mood shortly before their greatest triumph.

When the anthem confirmed to Jacinth later that night that Gladiator and Brimhurr were both dead he made the snap decision to cut down Water without mercy. He wiped blood off his blade and what little had been splattered onto his face as well. It wouldn't do to attend the final battle looking filthy.

He'd killed Water for being tougher than Crystal, per the pragmatism his parents had drilled into him for years. But also, on the extreme off-chance he lost, at least District One would have a Victor no matter what.

Up in the control centre Peridot felt very mixed that night as the last two tributes slept in opposite sides of the massive tomb. Her District was victorious no matter what and she could never call that a bad thing. Her loyalty was to One as a whole, after all. But the idea of Jacinth coming back and his dickish noble family rising up had the young women frowning something fierce. Alas, what could she do about it now?

She spent the night reading her comics, trying not to think of the annoying neighbour she was sure to have very soon. She'd hardly call Crystal much better, but the snooty women would take what she could get.

* * *

 **THE ADVENTURE OF THE BIG BOULDER!**

The pair from One crossed paths the next day. At high noon, the showdown between Jacinth Court and Crystal McCree began, though hardly in the way that had been foreseen by those overseeing the Games and watching them on TV.

Crystal had snuck past a few dart traps and was just taking a golden idol off of a pedestal, unable to resist how shiny it was, when Jacinth wandered into the room. He'd seen no signs of life ever since fending off a few mummy mutts two hours previously, but his eyes lit up when he saw Crystal stuffing the golden idol into her backpack.

"There you are!" he exclaimed, holding his sword at the ready hardly an instant later. "Shall we end this? The Games and your 'adventure' both?"

Crystal was about to give a cheeky reply and a crack of the whip, but the way the tomb suddenly began to rumble made both of the final two tributes pause in alarm.

"What was that?" Jacinth asked, more curious than anything else. "A mutt?"

"A boulder!" Crystal yelped, already dashing off. "Run!"

Crystal pulled ahead of Jacinth, making full use of the few precious seconds he spent glancing left and spotting the boulder being released. He charged right after Crystal as she sped down the sloped corridor directly in front of the boulder.

The nation was treated to witnessing a boulder chase as Crystal moaned over the pain in her chest and Jacinth was struck by about half a dozen, thankfully non-poisonous, darts. He barrelled forwards, wasting no time plucking them out as he zeroed in one Crystal.

He ran all the faster when he saw that a stone wall was lowering ahead, sure to trap him and Crystal with the boulder if one of them did not die quickly. He frantically sprinted just as Crystal, a decent distance ahead, make a lunge and a roll to get under the stone wall.

She sighed in relief, only to gasp when she realised her hat was not upon her head.

She reached back and quickly pulled her hat back, setting it upon her head without a moment to spare.

The next moment the stone wall closed fully and the sound of a massive stone smashing against the wall, crushing Jacinth into a mess of bloodied gore and bones, filled the tomb. When the rumbling came to an end and the dust stopped falling the tomb was very silent.

Crystal slumped onto her side, suddenly in too much pain to grab her defibrillator.

The ceiling of the tomb finally retracted and allowed the hovercraft to collect the exhausted, dying adventurer. The only thing was that, by the time Crystal was back on board the hovercraft again and flying home she wasn't herself anymore per-say.

She had died seconds ago.

* * *

 **THE ADVENTURE OF THE INDOOR EXISTENCE!**

It was an extremely close thing. The Capitol had been a hair's length away from having no Victor at all and dealing with all the absolute pandemonium that would have come after. It was lucky indeed that the Capitol's state of the art medical equipment and their on-board defibrillators were enough to jolt Crystal back to life enough for them to swoop in and start to provide a full medical procedure that lasted over a constant fifty hours, the doctors and nurses having to tag out and do it on shifts due to how one wrong move from sleepiness could easily send the Victor back beyond the curtain with no chance of revival.

The final interview and recap was delayed for three weeks due to how long Crystal had needed to recover and feel almost like her old self again. Almost. She was tired out and needed a long sleep more than anything else, one perhaps where she wasn't being watched on camera the whole time by Capitol security.

"I think I'm going to retire from adventuring," she told Mortimer at her final interview. "I came here for the adventure of a lifetime and to show I can do all the things people told me I was incapable of doing growing up. I've gotten what I came for, so now it's time to go home."

"Isn't that a bit anticlimactic?" Mortimer asked, a bit put out.

"Maybe, but it's like some of mama's stories," Crystal replied. "A girl goes on a grand quest and then in the end she has to go home once again, closing the book on what happened. Right now, I'm one of those girls."

Crystal paused, briefly gesturing to her wheelchair and the three oxygen tanks she was hooked up to while the interview went on.

"Besides, I don't think my body can take another grand adventure," Crystal said with a weak, sheepish laugh. "It might kill me... well, kill me again and this time for good."

Indeed, the sheer extremes Crystal had forced herself towards left her with issues walking, breathing properly and general health. A long period of recovery awaited her and, upon her return back home to District One, that's exactly what happened.

Crystal spent a vast majority of her time between returning home and heading on her Victory Tour tucked up in her bed, trying to relax and recover her strength. Her family were relieved to have her back, of course, but just as Crystal had foreseen she had been in massive trouble and grounded until further notice.

She sighed, stuck inside for the foreseeable future. As much as she knew she was in the wrong, needed rest and that her family were justified to keep her inside for the time being... it didn't mean she had to enjoy every second of it.

But at least the retired adventurer wasn't alone.

"Can we maybe please watch Fiona and Lawrence?" Harp asked, soft and hopeful. "New show, big fun, just started."

Crystal was never much for romantic and prissy kinds of TV shows, but she would always be willing to do what her best friend wanted. Her most vital and loyal sponsor, Harp was really the only reason Crystal had survived her first heart attack within that dimly lit trap filled tomb, having been the one to finance the defibrillators.

The girl's furious, Victor-less parents had tossed her out too and Crystal had therefore gained a room mate. One she was happy to provide for and hang out with on the long, slow road to recovery.

"Anything you want, Harp," Crystal said with an exhausted, content smile. "Anything you want."

* * *

"Ready to move on?" Peeta asked, ending the moment of respectful silence for Crystal. "If you'd rather take it slow, that's fine."

"I think we've said all we can about Crystal," Katniss said, already walking onwards. "If she was smiling by the time she had her face put on here then she must have gotten what she wanted from the arena,"

"I'd like to think she did," Peeta said as he followed his girlfriend. "I'd also like to hope that, you know, that having said that she didn't want anything nasty."

Soon enough the couple reached the fifteenth face on the lengthy sidewalk. A scowling boy with a buzzcut and gritted teeth looked back up at them.

"Bear Redfoot," Katniss read.

"He looks as fierce as a bear, I'll give him that," Peeta muttered, looking a little bit unnerved.

* * *

That's Crystal, the slightly airheaded adventurer from D1! I always try to make the Career Victors as unique and stand-out as I can rather than a 'classic brute' (which, I mean, works just fine of course but I like to have a bit of a personal flair going on here), so I figured it could be fun to make Crystal a bit distinct from an expected D1 Victor:

1- Heart issues.

2- Not overly trained to the level of a typical Career, hence being something of a 'quasi Career'.

3- A parody of Indiana Jones, complete with bullwhip and fedora.

I personally feel that she turned out better than Peridot – who, it seems, is growing into a snooty comic nerd lmao – but I'll let you guys be judge (and jury and executioner) as to how well I did. In any case, stay tuned for more!

* * *

 **Stats**

 **District 1:** Peridot Gaudy (8th Games), Crystal McCree (14th Games)

 **District 2:** Baron Overwhill (4th Games), Runa Peace (7th Games), Olga Machete (10th Games)

 **District 3:** Honorius Perthshire (5th Games)

 **District 4:** Museida Selkirk (3rd Games), Mags Flanagan (11th Games)

 **District 5:** Shunt Gaspar (12th Games)

 **District 6:** N/A

 **District 7:** Pliny Aransio (2nd Games), Fir Buzz (9th Games)

 **District 8:** N/A

 **District 9:** Mizar Aldjoy (1st Games), Gwenith Rosebud (13th Games)

 **District 10:** N/A

 **District 11:** N/A

 **District 12:** Duke Saint-Rose (6th Games)


	16. Bear Redfoot

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Hunger Games. They belong to Suzanne Collins.

 **Note:** Number fifteen already! I have to say, I honestly didn't expect to have gotten so far along in this story by this point. Not that I mind, of course, with how much sheer fun this tale is to write. One can only wonder when it might come crashing down upon me. :D Hopefully not this chapter, but either way let's meet Bear!

* * *

"He looks pretty angry," Peeta remarked. "Savage, even."

"Honestly, I like that," Katniss said, a light chuckle crossing out beyond her lips. "I can't imagine many people would feel happy to get reaped for the Games. Seems like Bear here didn't bother putting on a smile."

"Yeah, I guess that makes sense," Peeta agreed, glancing away from the face imprinted upon the ground. "Can't get over that savage look in his eyes... we sure he didn't Volunteer?"

"I doubt it, given he's from Eleven," Katniss replied, shrugging. "One look at that face though and you'd be forgiven for thinking he was a Career ready for a battle."

* * *

 **15th Annual Hunger Games**

 **Name:** Bear Redfoot

 **Gender:** Male

 **District:** 11

 **Age:** 18

 **Kills:** 5

* * *

Bear Redfoot was a bully.

After the Dark Days all of the Districts went under lockdown and had security buffed up to rather mind boggling levels, but none moreso than District Eleven. With it being where the Capitol got most of the food its ravenous, greedy citizens ate one could hardly feel shocked that the place had tons of Peacekeepers, walls and fences.

In all honestly, it was a lot like a gigantic prison.

 _Exactly_ like a gigantic prison in fact...

With all the security, brutal enforced work and the deprivation of food that is reserved for the 'generous Capitol' it's no surprise that numerous citizens of Eleven tend to be dirt poor and rely upon the tesserae system for survival. There are so many paper slips that the reaping bowls for Eleven have to have their size expanded from the norm. Poverty is commonplace.

It's exactly the background that Bear comes from. Tesserae rations, water and occasionally a fresh weed torn from the sidewalk make up his diet. One would hardly be blamed for assuming him to be like the helpless, starving youths who grew up around him. But Bear has a few things the others do not have.

Height, muscles inherited from his powerful native ancestors and a sadistic streak over a mile wide.

Life's all about survival to him and he doesn't just excel at surviving through harshness, he _embraces_ it. It starts when he's young and picks fights against those who flaunt the food their somewhat well off parents managed to buy or seeking out the toughest kid on the block and making a brutal go at taking the title for himself. But as he ages things get worse year after year.

Worse for all besides himself, that is.

Starting massive fights on the schoolyard and the streets, stealing the tesserae rations of other kids both his own age and much lower, vandalism of the property people he dislikes own... there's a word for people like Bear and that word is 'douche'. Other words are hellion, brute, asshole, sadist and even monster in the opinion of those not yet at reaping age.

Gangs are not unheard of in Eleven, but Bear has no need for a gang to back him up. Not when he can take care of himself by going solo. Besides, he likes having no allies; it means there's nobody he has to share his ill gotten gains with.

Nobody aside his Ma, the one person in Panem he would admit to having any sort of feelings for. Half of what he earned through violence, or stole through similar violence, went to her. It was a brutal way to live, but one that ensured neither went hungry and that Bear only got stronger while those around him got weaker and more afraid of him as time went by.

Bear hardly even cared about the Hunger Games either. Sure enough, he would support those from Eleven and hardly wanted to be in the arena himself, but he paid it no mind. Why bother over something that he cannot prevent a reaping of and has no intent to volunteer for? He'd saw no reason, instead focusing his time on building up his power and reputation as a madman.

With only seven slips in the bowl on the day of his final reaping, the lowest an eighteen year old could possibly have, Bear feels secure and ready to go about mugging patrons of the bakery over the next few hours. He's accepted the life of crime that awaits him, as have those who stand around him. After all, everybody stands as far apart from him as they can, a fact the cameras do not miss.

As stated in a previous tale, fate has a cruel and twisted sense of justice. A nasty girl from Nine isn't the only person fate intends to pay back today.

When his name is picked everybody breaks out in cheers of delight, laughter and relief. The Bear of Eleven is going away and never coming back!

Bear stands upon the stage, firm and composed in the heavy breeze of the afternoon. A smaller girl stands beside him, perhaps aged fourteen. Bear wonders if she's one of those he's beaten and stolen from in the past, but it's hard to keep track of such a vast number of people. But perhaps he has, judging with the way she eyes him in such contempt.

Bear makes his move, figuring he's got little to lose. The Games have begun. He thus wastes no time grabbing the microphone from the Escort.

"Remember this, I will be coming back," Bear spits, his eyes narrowed hatefully. "One always comes back and this year it'll be me. Then we'll see who is laughing!"

This intimidates the laughing, cheering youths into silence. They know that, on the off-chance Bear wins, they're going to all be in deep shit. The girl on stage, Crow, knows this too and already makes a plan of action.

* * *

Being reaped doesn't make Bear's horrendous behaviour any better. If anything, the fact a massive deathmatch looms near has him acting out far more than usual.

It occurs to him that they cannot do anything to him beyond what they've already got in store for him, so he doesn't see a damn reason why he can't unleash his hatred and sadism upon the Capitol.

In the first hour of the train ride alone the table has been overturned, plates smashed, the Escort punched out and Bear's frightened District Partner has locked herself in her room, shaking. He gives it no mind, thoroughly enjoying his rampage.

The television, complete with a cracked screen, shows all the other tributes that will be locked within the arena alongside Bear. The satisfaction he gets when he sees himself address the crowd back in Eleven feels incredibly hollow when he sees the vicious looking tributes from One and Two as well as the lecherous looking young man from Nine who merely smirks when he is reaped.

He doesn't give it much more thought, mainly as he's suddenly shot with a tranq dart from behind by a Peacekeeper. He falls amongst the centre of the site of his rampage, silenced for now.

* * *

Most tributes either wave and appeal to the crowd during the parade or at least try to make themselves appear likeable in some way. They all know by now that a well timed sponsor can mean the difference between life and death. Even the most Capitol hating of tributes try to suck it up and give at least a short wave.

Bear is not among them.

He scowls at the crowd, not bother to wave for a moment. All he gives them are rude gestures, vicious snarls and outright aggression. He makes it clear he's not their friend and he's not going to be a good little tribute.

...And they **love** it. After two years of 'good girls' winning the Games and most tributes trying to be polite, the audience finds a thrill in watching the 'bad boy' of the Fifteenth Hunger Games show off his bad attitude, as unlike Marlin of the 11th Games he's not throwing anything at them aside a scowl. Already several women swoon over the deadly young man, wondering what his story might be and just how he became so tough and dashing.

When the Peacekeeper in charge of overseeing the District Eleven tributes suggests he play that as his angle Bear damn near tears his arm off and orders the man to fuck off. He's got no patience for anybody aside himself and his Ma, Hunger Games or not.

* * *

When training starts Bear beats the Careers to the punch, both towards the weapon stations and in tormenting the younger, weaker tributes. Bear has no issues making his opponents feel small, alone and terrified as it only serves to better his own chances and if he doesn't do it, somebody else will anyway.

He's never been the kind to leave things in the hands of another, so he spends the morning going back and forth between making mincemeat of dummies using clubs and maces and harassing the tributes from Nine, Ten and Twelve until they wail for their parents... except the orphan girl from Twelve who just wails for mercy.

His formidable nature makes the four Careers deem him an obvious choice to allow into their pack and so it's Maximus from District Two who approaches Bear shortly before lunch on the first day and gives him the offer to join their alliance.

Before any Peacekeepers or staff can react Bear has snapped three of Maximus' fingers and told him to get the hell away from him, having no interest in allies he'd only grow to detest anyway.

While the other twenty three tributes head off for lunch, and in Maximus' case a medical examination, Bear is dragged off by the Peacekeepers for breaking the rule about no fighting before the arena arrives.

His confidence is broken when he sees just how merciless the punishment for his rampage thus far truly is. Even a hellion like him can't help sweating when the Head Gamemaker of this time – a previous Capitol architect by the name of Ronnigan Dratt – points to a Peacekeeper with a bonesaw and another with a syringe.

"I think it's time you were reminded who is in charge and just how bad things can get if the wise Capitol is pushed enough," Ronnigan says in a soft, smug whisper. "Your choice, of course. Bonesaw or the syringe?"

One moment spent thinking of the saw cutting into his flesh and bones has Bear quickly decide on the syringe. He's sent away unharmed, informed that his choice will be administered at a later time and to not push them any further or he'll get both the syringe and the saw.

* * *

The Fifteenth Games were the ones where training was extended from two days to the usual three that most modern Games enthusiasts would be familiar with as it was deemed that more training would make for better better, longer fights. Due to this, it meant more time where Bear had to keep himself under control or face an even worse penalty than he was already going to be given soon enough.

He tried keeping to himself, training hard, but the way several of the Peacekeepers on guard now had bonesaws visibly poking out from in their pockets or syringes in hand kept him pale faced and more than a little distracted.

Some of the Outliers noticed that the monster from Eleven had backed off, though nobody dared push him. Not when he might have been trying to lull them into a false sense of security for all they knew.

The Careers, meanwhile, knew exactly what was going on. Having Olga for a Mentor meant that Maximus was close to the one person trusted enough to be told what had been done to the brute from Eleven. All it took was standing near the door in the next room over to hear for himself what was in store.

From, there he had told his District Partner Shayla and both had decided to tell Ruby and Rose from District One. At that point, the four felt a bit of payback was both fair and sure to be enjoyable.

"Heard you got yourself into a bit of trouble, _Cub_ ," Maximus said with a sneer. "Heard that if you do anything else the bonesaw will be used."

It was a struggle, but Bear didn't respond to the four Careers. He merely scowled, something he knew he was still permitted to do.

"One more toe out of line and your toe may be sawed off. Maybe a few of them," Maxiumus said as he and his alliance circled around Bear. "What do you think Shayla, think we can make him lose it one more time?"

"I think we can," Shayla said, smirking coldly. "I don't mind taking a hit from him if it means this Capitol hater gets a hand sawn off before the arena."

"You can't do anything to me," Bear said, coldly. "You're held by the same rules."

His only response, at first, was laughter.

"Oh really?" Maxiumus asks. "True enough, there are rules we have to obey until the gong rings... but who is the one on their last warning? Who has the Capitol favourite as their mentor? I think we both know who has more freedom."

Maximus spat upon Bear, shoving him backwards. Not a single Peacekeeper on duty reacted despite how obvious the move had been. But when Bear got back up, fists ready to bring into action, they took out the bonesaws.

Bear paled as he stood still, hit with one nasty realisation.

He was trapped. For the first time in his short, hate filled life **he** was the prey on the bottom of the pile and others held the power to do whatever they wanted with him. More spitting and shoving followed before the Careers took their leave to resume training, their point having been made.

Bear, furious, humiliated and perhaps even a bit intimidated, tried to get back to training and sending angry looks at whoever came past him, but one thing seemed clear to him.

Nobody was wary of him anymore. At least, not in any way that compared to the Careers or any of the particularly powerful Outliers in the mix. Even the creepy boy from Nine seemed to garner a bit more fear than he did.

Bear told himself it was just a setback and that he'd regain power before long.

* * *

Things got worse after lunch on the second day.

The Careers came back, now flanked with another member. Bear was surprised to say the least when his own District Partner, Crow, stood against him alongside the lapdogs. Hatred burned in her eyes like fire from the sun.

"Your partner told us some interesting stories," Maximus said, smirking. "Told us how you've tormented people in your District for years. Stealing tesserae and going out of your way to attack people who stand against you or who you just don't like."

"What of it?" Bear grunted.

"Turns out that Crow here is missing a little brother... did you know he starved to death because you stole the food that Crow was taking to him?" Maximus asked, shaking his head. "Our recruit certainly told us a lot."

Bear feels like the floor under him has vanished, dropping him into a hellish, grisly free fall. The knowledge that he's been responsible for the death of a little boy, possibly others, shakes him something fierce. He was ready to kill to go home, sure enough, but this knowledge... this hurts.

It gets worse when Maximus and his cronies tell Bear that Crow has told them all of the strengths and weaknesses she can think of that apply to her brute of a District Partner. His fast speed, his muscles, the way he is exceptionally good at knife fighting, his phobia of rodents, the way he thirsts a little faster than most his age do, the fact he'd go into a mindless rampage if his Ma were mocked.

The small girl has sold him out, doing her best to ensure he can never win.

"Get ready for the arena, Cub," Maximum says with a final spit. "I'll be fair and lay it out now; if we catch you, you're getting tortured."

The Careers soon leave, preferring to make the rest of their points clear once the Games actually start. Bear, for the first time in his life, is reduced to begging. He pleads with Crow to help him, trying to play the card of District Loyalty.

She laughs in his face.

"Loyalty? What loyalty?" she asks simply. "Where was District loyalty when you caused my little brother to starve?"

There's no answer he can give, none whatsoever. The real twist of the knife comes when he warns Crow, correctly in fact, she cannot win if she intends to stick with the Careers for the Games.

"I don't care about winning. I've accepted my fate," she says, calm and icy.

She leans in close, her empty eyes an inch from Bear's shaken own.

"...But so long as you die, and die horribly, then I'll pass away feeling as good as a Victor," she says, turning on her heel and leaving Bear to his fate.

Bear doesn't cry at all that night, but it's an extremely close thing.

It isn't just terror that fills the young monster. This time something else stirs and feels even worse.

Guilt.

* * *

His private training session starts off well, Bear putting all of his anger and bitterness into tearing apart all in his way. But one look at the Gamemakers observing him has him feeling particularly shaken and off of his game.

He doesn't miss how a few of them have taken out bonesaws and syringes. A firm reminder that he's by no means off of the hook for breaking the rules.

He stumbles after that, his sure-fire score of ten falling down to a score of six.

Crow somehow manages a seven and laughs in his face. For the first time, Bear doesn't have it in him to respond with immediate aggression.

* * *

The interview is a nightmare. With all eyes on him, especially the Gamemakers and their bonesaws always kept in hand, Bear's confidence has broken and only one scared husk of a boy remains. The Capitol citizens pout, huff and whine over the fact their bad boy has lost his touch while the other tributes feel particularly pleased that the one who went around tormenting them on the first day of training has been seemingly tamed and broken.

When Mortimer finishes the failure of an interview by asking Bear if he thinks he can win the once brutal boy can hardly choke out a response.

Especially as Crow, who went right before him, announced in detail exactly what her allies were planning to do to Bear if they got their hands on him.

* * *

Things go from bad to awful when Bear dresses in his tribute outfit for the arena. Chocolate brown as always for District Eleven and a sleeveless thing, the fabric rather thin. The outfit doesn't bother Bear, it being irrelevant in his eyes and nothing to what is terrifying him at the current moment.

He stumbles back, roaring in pain as his Stylist suddenly jams a syringe into his left arm.

"An extra condition, ordered by our very own Head Gamemaker Ronnigan," she says with a cheerful smile. "A slow working poison. It will kill you in exactly one hundred hours, so don't dilly dally. Happy Hunger Games and may the odds be ever in your favour!"

Bear barely resists the urge to breakdown and murder his Stylist, instead barrelling into the tube that will take him to his fate. The sooner he can get started, the better.

He becomes keenly aware of every passing second and suddenly every little itch or cramp from within his body has his panic worsen, as if the poison suddenly worked way too fast and ended his life prematurely.

"Gonna kill them all, make them pay, make them sorry," he mutters, fast and mad. "Won't take long, gonna kill them."

He tries to ignore the guilt that flares up again, hurting more than the rough stab from the syringe.

* * *

The tributes are met with an unpleasant rainfall from the moment they are launched into place. Thick, grey clouds fill the sky and cast a rainstorm down to the miles wide arena below. Before the countdown is half over several tributes are soaked and some among them feel their skin getting a little raw from all the rain hitting them. It's clearly a year of nasty weather that awaits them.

The clearing where the Cornucopia is located, a hundred and fifty feet across in all directions, is surrounded by miles and miles and miles of wheat. The arena is really just a gargantuan wheat field in all directions, one that is sure to drag the Games out and provide plenty of places to hide. Beyond the wheat are rocky mountains at the arena's edge, looming over the wheat field like an intimidating border.

Bear curses, realising just how strict his deadline is. If too many escape the bloodbath, he's done for. He's not bright, but knows well enough that a death by poison is slow and painful. Once it flairs up at the hundredth hour a stretch of purest agony is all that will await him.

All of this, he comes to see, is a punishment for a lifetime of tormenting and brutalising innocents.

The guilt is agony, but he's still not enough fight in him to rise up and fight for his life. When the gong rings, he is one of the twenty two who charges into the fray, ready for the fight of his life.

A man driven by desperation is a fierce fighter and Bear is even more desperate than the other twenty three tributes, a number lowered by one when he smashes the girl from Nine with a large club.

Bear fights hard and fast, but he lacks the numbers and coordination that the Careers and Crow have got. They slaughter six tributes in not even two minutes and leave others fleeing the area with bruises and even a stab wound or two. Bear doesn't care at first, as every death and injury upon the competition helps his terrible odds look a little less awful.

He suddenly cares a lot more when the Careers turn their attention towards him. Having five people charging with weapons in hand has him fleeing a battle for the first time in his life, scared like a trapped rat.

He flees into the wheat and continues his escape into the depths of the gigantic wheat field with only a club and a backpack to his name. Despite the terror that rises within him he manages to leave the Careers behind as well as the thirteen corpses scattered around in blood soaked heaps by the Cornucopia, two of them laying dead due to his own club.

Stumbling through the wheat and rain he eventually has to stop that night. His supplies are meagre, but passable. He gets a sponsor parachute, one containing only a small stopwatch.

He has ninety hours left.

* * *

Bear doesn't sleep at all for the first night, too paranoid about wasting his limited time. Stumbling around in fatigue does him no good though, only leading to some tics in the wheat biting his left arm.

But still, he continued.

All the marching through the rain ends up making him slip over and break one of his fingers. He flinches, the pain surging through him horribly for several searing hot seconds.

But still, he continued.

All the rapid movement within the seemingly endless expanse of wheat makes him stumble over several times, leaving him mud stained over much of his skin and clothing.

But still, he continued.

Shivering in the pouring rain that kept up through the night had his chattering teeth and ended with him biting his own tongue thrice, drawing blood.

But still, he continued.

The rainfall turned a fair portion of the dirt into mud, leaving Bear squelching with every step he took. He slipped over, hitting his head on the ground and knocking himself out for a time.

At last, he did not continue.

* * *

While the Career Pack head south, following the only lead they have – some bloodsoaked wheat that was nothing to do with any of them – Bear ambles around the north with his club in hand and a shaken grimace on his face. His face drains of colour more and more with every glance that he takes at his stopwatch, the seconds to his doom seeming to pass every faster.

Seventy hours are left and nobody else has died since the bloodbath.

"Fuck, fuck," Bear mutters, swallowing hard on his own fear as a cold sweat runs down his face. "Where are they?"

Bear tries to stop thinking about the arena, about the poison, about how everybody back in Eleven is surely cheering over the situation he has landed in. He finds it impossible to not shiver, harder still to hold back every last broken tear, when he recalls all the cheers that went up when his name was pulled from the damn reaping bowl.

The idea of his death before knowing what awaited him had them cheering wildly. Now that they are seeing it broadcast it can only mean even more laughter.

He starts to realise this is exactly the thing he liked seeing happen to those he deemed as weak, as prey, as obstacles to step on.

He starts to see what a monster he must have been and how calling it survival doesn't justify it.

Even so, the moment he lays eyes on the small boy from Ten he doesn't hesitate to charge for him to keep himself ahead of the death clock. The small boy is fast though and soon vanishes from sight. Bear storms around for over an hour, desperate to find his prey, oblivious to the fact the boy has curled up in a ball on the ground and remains perfectly still and silent. Bear never comes close to him for even a moment.

Sundown approaches all too fast and Bear is no closer to beating the clock. The cameras are all too eager to broadcast his meltdown to the nation and comment on his poor odds and the 'strange symptoms' that his vitals are showing.

Hours into the night, laying on his back from sheer exhaustion from the mental torment and fruitless hunt a cannon goes off. Bear practically jumps for joy until the anthem, displayed mere minutes later, shows it was just the obese boy from Five. Literally the easiest person in the arena to find.

Bear had never come close to him.

He sleeps badly that night, keenly aware that less than sixty hours are left.

* * *

Catching raindrops in an empty bottle fills up a stretch of Bear's ever more limited time, but he can't afford to let dehydration slow him down. He sucks it up, holding the bottle in the air until his tic bitten arm aches something dreadful. A gulp and then the cycle continues over and over.

A cannon booms halfway through the third day when the Careers manage to catch the boy from Three after a lengthy chase mixed with hide and seek in the wheat, but Bear's surge of joy is very short lived.

Luklerr from Nine crosses paths with him and is more than willing to fight. In fact, the boy seems rather happy about it.

"A good thing you found me, honestly, " he says as he holds his large sickle firmly. "I was getting dreadfully bored, you know? Let's go."

And go they do. Bear is vicious with every swing, driven fast and hard by sheer desperation of how time ticks ever lower for him. Luklerr seems to find it funny, the strange boy dodging with all kinds of odd and sometimes visually off-putting flexible movements. He bends back further than a normal spine should allow to dodge what would've been a fatal blow and sweep kicks Bear over.

"Giving up?" Luklerr asks. "How boring."

Bear is soon back up, roaring ever more desperately. But desperation becomes agony when Luklerr makes a solid blow into his shoulder with the large sickle and blood is splattered around. As Bear howls in pain Luklerr smiles, almost serenely, as he traces a singer along the splatter of Bear's blood that ended up on his face.

"Beautiful," he remarks, softly chuckling. "Gonna keep fighting? We've only been at it for an hour now. Maybe an hour and ten."

The reminder of his ever tight deadline and how he's got less than fifty hours left before the poison works its dreadful effects through his body gives Bear one final burst of energy. One that leaves him upon Luklurr, beating the boy's head right in with his bare hands.

Bear walks away from the kill zone with only seven opponents left to take down, but now he only has a little over forty eight hours. This and the entire Career pack is still alive and his right shoulder is looking horrible, soaked with blood and flaring with agony.

For once Bear feels no thrill, satisfaction or indifference to the violence he committed.

He feels **shaken**.

"Nnggggghhh..." he shudders, clenching his jaw. "I did this shit to people back home... what the fuck... how the fuck could I even..."

* * *

Bear ambles around, utterly lost and starting to feel like he is going mad as the sun rises on the fourth day in the arena. By now only twenty five hours are left and there are still seven other tributes who remain in the mortal world. Bear is starting to forget who they are and what District they belong to.

He is jolted somewhat back to life when, just after he is down to twenty two hours, a cannon booms to mark the death of the deaf boy from Eight.

The thing that really has his attention is that, when he strains his ears, he can make out a very faint cheer towards the south. The thought of finding somebody else has him make a beeline for the source of the kill that just occurred.

The murderer of whoever died may still be around and wounded. As easy a kill as he'll be able to get. Time runs low and he has nothing to lose.

Screams fill the air and suddenly have him moving much faster than before. He knows that scream, or at least recognises the voice of its owner.

Crow.

He gets there too late, the rest of the pack having split off and scattered around the gigantic wheat field. Clearly something had to give and it was Crow's life. She lays bloodied and mangled, staring up at Bear as he staggers up and knees beside her.

The words are past his lips before he can really consider them.

"What happened to you? Who did this? I'll make them pay!"

Crow is far gone, but still finds it in her to laugh in Bear's face, coughing up blood.

"You're gonna die in here," she says, bitter. "When they catch you, you're gonna wish you'd never been born..."

After everything, be it the knowledge of how he caused Crow's little brother to starve, the pain in his nasty wounds, the horrible fear of his ever lower death clock, the agonising remorse for the life he has lived or even the vivid nightmares, Bear only chokes out two words.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, shaking.

Crow spits in his face with her last energy.

"I don't forgive you," she wheezes, pain filling her last breath. "I hate you... sleep on that..."

Bear wanders on, feeling light all over. It somehow feels worse than the wound in his shoulder, the knowledge somebody lay dying in their own blood and used their final moments to rub in their hatred for him.

Even the boom of the cannon, one that he sees later that night belonged to Ruby – the boy having fell upon a nest of angry tics – doesn't make him feel remotely better in spite of how it means only four opponents remain in the arena.

He has only fifteen hours left by this point and no idea where the boys and girls are. The idea of violence is starting to freak him out as is the howl of the wind.

After collapsing for a while he's awoken by the announcement of a Feast by the Cornucopia just as the faintest rays of the sun begin to appear in the gloomy sky.

With eight hours left he makes a desperate sprint in the direction that the pillar of light points out to him. It starts at midday, by which point he'll have just two hours left.

* * *

As he kneels, hidden within the large mass of wheat, Bear finds it impossible to stop shaking and shuddering non-stop. So little time is left. It's a wonder he doesn't pass out then and there from pure shock.

Only four remain now after Rose and Shayla's duel in the rainstorm led to the latter girl crumbled in the mud with stab marks from sai blades all over her chest.

Bear doesn't feel any response to the fact so few are left and likely to be in the same place. He's about ready to have a heart attack, tears filling his utterly broken, pained eyes.

If even one of them doesn't come to the Feast then he is as good as dead.

He's keenly aware of just how many people, whether from the Districts of his opponents or his own District, will be cheering as he dies. The agony of just how hated he is drains much of the fight from him.

All the same, he won't give up.

The Feast begins as the table of food and water raises out of the ground in front of the Cornucopia. Rose and Maximus make a charge for it and quickly begin devouring the bread and drinking from the goblets of water.

They stand, weapons poses and no attempt made on each other's lives. Unlike past careers, they're not going to jump the gun and leave themselves outnumbered or lacking back-up.

Having literally nothing left to lose and no reason to hesitate besides the chance for a few more minutes of a painful existence Bear charges out of the wheat and towards the pair of trained killers.

He's forgotten who the other one left is, only that the sooner these two are dead the more time he has to find the final tribute.

The battle is absolutely savage with blood and flesh splattered and torn. The Careers have numbers and training, but Bear has a life of violence and a tiny time limit before certain death to keep him going. He's beaten black and blue, his filthy outfit stained a nasty shade of red. The Careers don't look much better but refuse to give up.

As they fight the small, starving boy from Ten runs out of the wheat to grab some bread and flee back to safety. Rose pursues him to try and take him out fast and to get a distance away from Bear.

She easily slices the boy from Ten but not before he's able to stab her right in the heart with a dagger, a cannon firing a moment later.

"Feels fitting, doesn't it?" Maximum asks as he and Bear circle each other around the table. "Us, the first two to fight that one time in training and now we're the ones in the final fight of these Games. Ready to die?"

"No," Bear hisses, hardly holding himself together at this point. He's exhausted, utterly destroyed on the inside and his death clock shows he's got just barely under an hour at this point in the battle. "No, no, no!"

"Yes, yes, yes," Maximus says as he continues to try and strike Bear with his sword.

The duel moves away from the table and into the thick, rancid mud at their feet. Both are hurt, but Bear is in worse shape by this point.

"Didn't have to be this way," Maximus continues. "We could've been allies. I was fine to make it happen, but you ruined it. You broke my fingers; doesn't matter to me if the Capitol fixed them right up. You bought everything upon yourself! Everything!"

Bear wheezes, running out of ability to fight. He's well aware that Maximus is correct on all accounts.

"Now what was it Crow said?" he whispers, taking a moment to catch his breath and holding Bear back with his sword. "About your weaknesses? About your Ma?"

As broken as Bear is in all manner of ways, the mention of his Ma has him bristling.

"What?" he mutters, gasping out for air.

"Does she feel ashamed of you? Hate you? Wish you'd never been born?" Maximus says, eyes firm and narrowed. "Does she feel bad to have mothered such a brute? If Crow is right, your mother fucked over District Eleven because she brought you into this world!"

Bear knows Maximus might be correct, but either way he uses his last strength to barrel towards the powerful young man. As Maximum expected, it makes it easy to hit Bear with his sword.

But, he'd massively underestimated just how high Bear's pain resistance is in such extreme situations. Or perhaps he just overestimated his own power and ability to hold the thug back.

"What?! How?!" Maximus hisses, struggling violently and landing more punches upon Bear.

"Don't talk shit about Ma," Bear says, sounding more tired than anything else.

One swing of the club and it's over as the cannon booms... or so it appears to be. A few minutes of silence makes Bear sit and realise only two cannons fired during the Feast. With forty minutes left he checks over the bodies of Rose and the boy from Ten. Sure enough, the small Outlier is faintly breathing, though wounded and unconscious.

Bear doesn't bother hiding all the tears anymore. It's impossible after the sheer nightmare of karmic backlash he's been through. Weeping, his bad boy image forever destroyed, he makes it quick.

He kneels over soon after, the guilt that consumes him as he is lifted out of the arena feeling worse than a hundred sharp knives digging into his broken body.

* * *

At the after party Bear sits on a chair in a fancy suit, staring out blankly into space. Long gone is his malicious smirk or the one sadistic glint in his eyes. A broken stare is all he can muster now, even with the poison easily removed from his system.

He hardly says a word to anybody who comes his way, too traumatised from the experience in the arena to bring himself to get into the simplest of conversations.

The footage of Eleven's reaction to his victory plagues his mind. Cries of sheer disappointment.

Mortimer had been more than happy to point this out and 'innocently' ask why everybody seemed so upset that he'd avoided a deadly fate within the arena.

Bear was too broken to have it in him to punch the man.

He sits for a long time, he doesn't know how long exactly, as the after-party at the President's Mansion goes on around him. Eventually one of the other Victors comes over to speak to him, one whom he doesn't remember the name of. The one with the deformity.

"Anything I can do for you?" she asks him softly. "We're all Victors after the Games, whoever we were before. We're a family."

Bear is barely able to choke out a request to be left alone.

"Leave you alone to suffer? I should think not," Gwenith says, her voice ever so quiet. "Sure, you seemed like quite the bully before the arena, but that doesn't matter now. Two years in a row now a girl who tricked me under volunteering got reaped and I tried my best to save them anyway. After the Games... what came before no longer seems important."

Gwenith politely doesn't bring up the fact Bear smashed Kernelly's brains in with his massive club.

"Please, us Victors want to help you," she says, almost gently. "Well, most of us anyway. No such luck with Peridot and Olga."

Bear remains almost catatonic, up to when Gwenith asks him a question he'd not particularly expected.

She asks him to dance.

"Lots of people are," she says, gesturing to the colourful dance floor. "See the Victors?"

She points past the dancing Capitolites upon the dance floor and to where several of the the Victors get a groove of sorts on. Fir wildly dances with Mizar, laughing in glee despite how flustered and alarmed the original Victor looks. Mags has dragged Museida to the dance floor for a short boogie. Crystal slow dances with Harp, not that Bear recognises the latter. Duke busts a move with a young man from the merchant side of Twelve. Baron and Runa steal the show with their energetic, lively dance moves they put in in perfect sync with each other.

"Care to join me? Might take your mind off of everything for a while at least," Gwenith says, forcing a smile. She knows how Bear feels and, two years after her own Games, still feels plenty of pain from the memories of her own arena.

"...No, just wanna be alone," Bear says, quickly rising and leaving to the garden area outside of the mansion.

He spends the night under the constant, smug gaze of the Head Gamemaker. He wishes he'd just accepted Gwenith's offer and danced with her.

He wishes he'd not been such a sadist to the point where his home District are upset he didn't die. Upset that this was their year.

* * *

Bear sits all alone on the train side back home to District Eleven. His Escort is afraid of him and hides several train cars away. The Peacekeeper assigned to watch over the tributes from Eleven remained at the Capitol, his duty served. Crow is dead in a casket a few train cars from his current spot. He's alone and, for once, he doesn't like it.

Bully. Sadist. Thug. Fiend. Murderer. The words all bounce around in hi head until he's sure he's already gone mad. He's not expecting a warm welcome home, not after the life he has lived.

Crow's final words to him torment him most of all.

After a night of sitting in silence, blankly staring at the dormant TV, he finally reaches an epiphany when Eleven is only a mile away.

"No more," he mutters to himself, his hands covering his face. "No more of this life I'm living. It's time to change."

As Bear exits the train to loud booing and screaming several minutes later he leaves his past sadism and violent conduct behind. He wonders if anybody will even care or if it'll matter.

He decides to try anyway.

Bear Redfoot _was_ a bully.

* * *

"Looking at this guy's scowl makes me want to know what his story was," Katniss admitted, looking intrigued. "Think anybody may know? I mean, at the party?"

"Maybe. An early Victor probably had years to make an impression of those who came after," Peeta said. He thought for a moment. "Seeder and Chaff are gone, but there was one more Victor from Eleven. Spud, that was his name? If he survived then maybe we can ask him."

"A big if, that," Katniss said, a small frown adorning her face. "It's strange. Seventy three people we're going to be seeing and only nineteen are left. We gonna start making guesses on who is left?"

"Fifty Caps on Pasture," Peeta said, lightly smirking.

His smirk vanished when he saw Katniss' dull frown.

"I was only kidding," Peeta said as he and Katniss moved on.

The pair soon came to the next face down the sidewalk, one that got a reaction of familiarity out of them both. The fairly blank, perfectly neutral face of Woof Casino looked back up at them.

"Woof seemed nice... you know, in the very short time we knew him," Peeta said, glancing up at the sunny sky.

"I most remember him for trying to eat poisonous bugs," Katniss admitted.

* * *

And there we go, that was the first Victor of D11; Bear! On the one hand I think the story of going from a completely sadistic thug to a guy attempting to not be quite so violent after the shitload of karmic backlash he just went through was a good read. Indeed, the hundred hour time limit was something I found to be a cool addition. On the other hand though, perhaps a bit too on the nose? IDK, I guess I just have very lofty standards for my writing and ponder it may have been laid on a bit too thick? What do you guys think? In any case, we've reached the second canon Victor! What could Woof's origin story be like? Stay tuned to find out!

* * *

 **Stats**

 **District 1:** Peridot Gaudy (8th Games), Crystal McCree (14th Games)

 **District 2:** Baron Overwhill (4th Games), Runa Peace (7th Games), Olga Machete (10th Games)

 **District 3:** Honorius Perthshire (5th Games)

 **District 4:** Museida Selkirk (3rd Games), Mags Flanagan (11th Games)

 **District 5:** Shunt Gaspar (12th Games)

 **District 6:** N/A

 **District 7:** Pliny Aransio (2nd Games), Fir Buzz (9th Games)

 **District 8:** N/A

 **District 9:** Mizar Aldjoy (1st Games), Gwenith Rosebud (13th Games)

 **District 10:** N/A

 **District 11:** Bear Redfoot (15th Game)

 **District 12:** Duke Saint-Rose (6th Games)


	17. Woof Casino

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Hunger Games. They belong to Suzanne Collins.

 **Note:** Here we are, already at sweet sixteen! Of course, I'd hardly go around calling the Hunger Games sweet whether or not you win or die. So, Woof! Kind of an enigma to me in canon as, understandably imo, he doesn't really do anything and we don't exactly get a read onto what his Games were like, really? Lucky for us, I figured out how to fill in the blanks. One can only hope this won't turn terrible lmao.

* * *

Katniss and Peeta looked down at Woof's blank face imprinted upon the sidewalk. With his tidy, short hair and fairly relaxed look he seemed perfectly ordinary. Middle of the road. Like there was nothing really notable about him.

"How do you think Woof won his Games?" Katniss eventually asked. "I never asked, though I don't think he'd have really given me much of an answer anyway."

"The guy seemed senile," Peeta agreed. "Looked nice though. Guess we'll have to hope a Victor from Eight made it through the rebellion, won't we? ...Honestly, I always just assumed he hid for his Games and maybe made one kill in the Bloodbath."

Katniss considered this for a moment.

"Yeah, that sounds like the most reasonable guess," she said with a short nod. "I don't see him being one of those Outliers who went on a rampage."

The pair looked down at Woof's stats below his imprinted face. Stunned into a mutual silence for a few moments.

"...What the fuck?" Muttered Katniss.

"Didn't expect that," Peeta said, now looking awkward.

* * *

 **16th Annual Hunger Games**

 **Name:** Woof Casino

 **Gender:** Male

 **District:** 8

 **Age:** 17

 **Kills:** 10

* * *

 **8 TIMES WOOF CASINO DID EXACTLY AS HE WAS TOLD**

* * *

 **#1. "Work harder!"**

Besides the fabrics and clothing that it produces, almost all of which is taken away for the Capitol to make use of, District Eight is quite the colourless and lifeless sort of place. The citizens are glum, riots and small showings of rebellion are commonplace, everything is grey from all the pollution in the air and people are packed together like the long extinct species known as sardines, having to make do with living in high rising tenant buildings. It's no way to live, but it's all the people have and all the Capitol intends to give them.

The fabric factories are much like a sweatshop, metaphorically and literally. Working conditions are harsh and unpleasant, but the penalty for not making quota is even moreso. It's a struggle to survive but when it's a choice between live horribly and work or end up starving to death it ends up not being a choice at all.

Children as young as ten are often used to work on the assembly lines, pairing socks or packing rolls of fabric into boxes ready for shipment. It pays badly, but bad pay is better than no pay. Such a mantra is what gets most residents of District Eight through the day.

One such resident is Woof Casino, perhaps the quietest boy in Factory Delta-Six in Town 16. He's often silent throughout the entire work day, hardly reacting to a thing going on a round him whether it's angry factory foremen or fellow youths on the assembly lien who cry out in hunger and pain.

Some call him brain dead. Some call him creepy. Others assume he might be at least partly robotic.

The truth is much simpler. Woof has plenty of capacity to outshine all of his work mates, but he's got little to none in the way of independent thought. Living a strict upbringing as the seventh among seven children where Ma and Pa's word is law and, if they are not around, his siblings' word is law left him without any chance to make his own choices in life, merely following whatever somebody else decided for him.

He doesn't even realise his distinct lack of personal ideas and decisions are alarming on a psychological level. If he's told to do something then he will do it, no matter what it is.

He doesn't even pause from his work when the feeling of thirst gets a little bit painful. Nor when it gets more than just a little painful and the girl three places up from him faints.

He does pause for a moment when the head foreman of the factory storms over, impatience in his eyes. He shakes his head, rather incensed.

"We're falling behind on quota!" he yells, tapping a clipboard roughly. "All of you work harder!"

He gets right in Woof's face, snapping his fingers an inch from his eyes for a few moments.

"Work harder, Casino!" he snaps.

Woof simply gives a quick nod and does as his boss tells him to. His hands are practically a blur as he rapidly packages the materials into their boxes with a pace so fast it makes the rest stop[ and stare for a moment, awed.

Even the foreman is stunned into silence by how insanely fast Woof is going without any signs of stopping. But he won't argue with results like this, simply giving an impressed nod and keeping on his way.

"Do this every day that you work here," he says as he leaves.

Woof hears him and obeys without question. Because of these simple commands Factory Delta-Six is by far the most productive factory within District Eight for that entire year. Woof doesn't get any particular reward for it, but such a thing never occurred to him to begin with.

All he really did was do exactly as he was told.

* * *

 **#2. "Save me!"**

Woof passes through his first five reapings completely unnoticed and undetected. He hardly emotes in the time that he is there, a stark contrast to the terror of the boys who cluster around him in the applicable age section year after year. On the two occasions that a boy within his own section is picked he doesn't react as the sobbing future corpse heads to the stage, towards their gruesome fate.

Nobody told him to cry or to feel pity. He just stands where is Ma pointed him towards.

Five reapings go by with Woof being completely safe and ten children being butchered. Ten to add onto the large death toll that has arisen for the District lacking a Victor.

At his sixth reaping he is silent in the section for seventeen year olds, not making a sound. No cries nor mumbles nor even a quiet mutter. Nobody told him to speak, just to stand.

Even the fact his name has gone into the reaping bowl twenty three times doesn't give him any reason to react in any particular way outside the norm. It's only people who can tell him to do something, not simple slips of paper.

A name is drawn from the girls bowl – just a poor fifteen year old he doesn't know – and as expected he doesn't react.

When a boy is reaped it's not him.

It's his brother Wefter, who at the age of eighteen is his only remaining reaping eligible sibling and has an arm in a sling from a recent accident at his factory job. One the doctors say is unlikely to ever be the same ever again.

"Save me!" he wails, having entered a rather nasty panic attack.

Woof hears the command and doesn't hesitate to obey. He throws up his arm and loudly volunteers, marching his way up to the stage. His brother can hardly speak, mixed between relief and sheer horror of what Woof has done.

"I just did what I was told to," is all the reasoning Woof gives to his Escort, Peacekeeper Mentor and to Mortimer when they each ask why he Volunteered in his brother's place.

He doesn't particularly understand the fuss going on over the fact he willingly entered the Hunger Games. It doesn't occur to him that the odds of death are high and that District Eight has never won before, their tributes having all died violent and painful deaths.

All he really did was do exactly as he was told.

* * *

 **#3. "Learn everything."**

Woof passes through the parade unnoticed, a normal occurrence for a boy from District Eight. He stands rigidly still on the chariot beside his female companion Looper. Unlike her, he doesn't wave to the ground or even look anywhere remotely towards them. He stares straight ahead like a statue, hardly even blinking. Nobody told him to wave.

Looper finds herself feeling spooked by the boy she's forced to share the chariot with.

It's much of the same when training begins the next day. The tributes are given a short introduction and left to their own devices, an action that leaves Woof without anything to do.

Literally. He spends the entire first half of the day standing in the same place, calmly staring off into space. He doesn't respond to anybody who waves a hand in front of his eyes or tries to bark a mocking insult at him. He just stands and stares blankly.

Even the Careers quietly admit to each other that the boy from Eight is starting to freak them out a little.

It's during lunch when Looper asks Woof why he's not doing anything that things begin to make a bit more sense to her.

"I wasn't given any orders," he says with a simple shrug, focusing on finishing his scrambled eggs.

"Well in that case... learn everything?" Looper suggests, awkwardly.

Lunch ends and Woof barrels into the training area like he's got the stamina of ten men. Everybody, even the Careers, can't help but pause in awe for a minute as the boy from Eight sprints around the training centre like a human blur, blazing through each and every single training station with a look of sheer focus and determination on his face. He's a total training _machine_!

Days pass with him training with the same, seemingly endless, ferocious energy. The Careers think better of recruiting him, seeing him as too much of a danger and hassle to work with. He's marked for the first to die unless he grabs a big sword. No sense fighting this warrior if he's well armed.

Woof becomes the first tribute from Eight to score an eleven. He's not sure why everybody is cheering for him over this and raving over how powerful he must be.

All he really did was do exactly as he was told.

* * *

 **#4: "Tell us everything!"**

It's no surprise when Woof's interview starts as a complete flop. He enters the stage as prompted and from there everything is very, very awkward. Woof only replies in the most vanilla, one word answers on the odd occasion he says anything at all. It's not even able to be angled as mysterious or Woof being a man of few words. It's just awkward.

Very awkward.

When the interview reaches the halfway mark Mortimer has had all he can take of the awkwardness. He loses his composure, actually pulling at his hair as he cries out in sheer protest. The amount of awkwardness in Woof's terrible interview is more than he is able to take.

"What about this is hard to understand?! It's an interview! You just answer the questions I ask you and you answer them interestingly!" he shrieks, a mad look in his eyes. "Woof! Tell us everything!"

Having been given a direct command Woof instantly obeys.

He obeys all too well and soon the audience are suddenly missing the awkward silences and short answers from mere moments ago.

Woof tells them everything. _Everything_. He tells them about how many times he has vomited at work from all the unpleasant fumes. He tells them about the warts on his Grandpa's feet. He tells them in-depth about the rat he ate in a soup on a dare. He tells them about the rather suspicious looking pimple that has recently appeared on the left side of his scrotum.

His interview is cut off ten seconds early because, rules be damned, this is just too much information for a 'family show' like the Hunger Games!

Woof doesn't really understand why the audience are gagging into their popcorn and crying in such shrill voices as he's practically dragged away backstage.

All he really did was do exactly as he was told.

* * *

 **#5: "Give Them Hell."**

Woof dresses quickly changing into his tribute outfit per the orders of his Stylist and stands around blankly, awaiting further instructions. None come until it's time for the games to begin. He doesn't even pay any attention to his air filtered, heat resident clothing he's been given. He wasn't told to, after all.

He moves into the tube when prompted, his eyes completely devoid of fear. Devoid of pretty much every emotion, in fact.

His Stylist has only one thing to say to him before the tube closes.

"Give them hell," she says, hoping that by having a Victor under her care she may get a promotion.

Woof snaps to attention, giving a serious nod as the tube closes and begins to raise him upwards to the arena. His fists clench and his eyes narrow. He's been given his orders and he'll dedicate his entire sense of being towards getting the job done. He remains fiery and determined as the air of the arena meets him.

It's perhaps the most hellish arena that has been seen at this point in the history of the Hunger Games. The sky is an endless night much like the Fifth Hunger Games while the terrain is an all new variety that has the Capitol citizens cheering. A volcano. A rocky, barren landscape filled with lava lakes is towered over by a gigantic volcano filled with magma that looks ready to erupt at any given moment. The sight of all this hellishness and the smell of burning sulphur have many tributes weeping and shuddering under the darkness of night.

When the gong rings the Careers charge in as do many of the terrified Outliers, but Woof remains right where he is standing as he merely observes his competition. It's not clear right away, but he's taking a few moments to pick out a target and ensure he can most efficiently carry out the request of his Stylist.

Thirty seconds into the Games, by which time the girl from Nine has blown herself up by vomiting onto the landmines around her pedestal prior to the gong and the boy from Six lays with five stab wounds in his back, Woof lunges into the fray as fast as lightning. As he grabs a sword in one hand and a spear in the other there is no doubt that he manages to do as his Stylist asked and then some.

He decapitates the boy from Five silently.

He guts the girl from Ten without blinking.

He throws the spear over a hundred yards through the air and into the back of the little boy from Twelve.

He throws aside the acidic and sour girl from two, stealing her kill as he breaks the neck of the boy from Three in an instant.

Before long he's racked up two more kills in the form of the bloodied body of the girl from Six and the torn remains of the boy from Eleven.

By this point the Career pack flock him at once, wanting to eliminate this maniac before he can do anything to them and also to stop him kill stealing. Murder is how the Careers earn their sponsors after all; if somebody keeps doing it for them then they'd be out of the job.

Woof stampedes out into the barren landscape with a large duffel bag over his shoulder and a big sword clutched in both hands, with a nasty cut across his back. He doesn't understand why the Careers call him a psychopath as they morn the crumpled, beaten and very dead form of pretty Beret from One.

All he really did was do exactly as he was told.

* * *

 **#6: "Win for Me..."**

With Woof's prior order constantly on his mind the Games this year do not end up going on for a particularly long time. By the time the fourth day rolls around, the endless night still very much ongoing, only seven tributes are left. Amazingly, District Eight still has both of their tributes alive.

By midday District Seven cannot claim the same as their powerful girl falls victim to Woof throwing her over his shoulder and into the molten lava. A quick and clean kill, one that easily makes the highlight reel.

But even on his rampage for the sake of his Stylist Woof is broken out of his killing focus when he hears Looper screaming for help. Like a powerful eagle he practically flies through the air as he makes a rapid beeline for where his District Partner can be heard suffering and pleading.

He makes it too late to save her, though he certainly isn't too late to dispatch Barracuda from District Four, swinging his sword so hard that her upper half is sliced off and falls into a lava river while her lower half stumbles around, collapsing lifelessly.

He can tell that Looper's trident injury is bad, easily bad enough to be beyond help. But if she gives the command then he'll do his best regardless to help her through the pain.

Instead the dying girl weakly takes his hand, a gesture he returns as she lays down for her final sleep. The seconds pass as though they were hours, one half of District Eight's chances kneeling over the other as she slips away from the world.

When she gestures him to come close Woof obeys in an instant.

"What do you need?" he asks, a single tear leaking down his face.

It's hard for her to get the words out, and when she does it's barely in a quiet whisper. She's so very nearly gone.

"Win for me..." Looper requests with her dying breath.

She dies moments later, but not before seeing Woof go rigid as he registers this new command and promises to her, _swears_ to her, that he will do exactly that no matter what.

He stalks off into the fiery night as the cannon booms and the volcano rumbles, the lava flowing fast and soon boxing the final four into a mere two square miles of land.

He has no idea why people doubted his capability of keeping his promise.

All he really did was do exactly as he was told.

* * *

 **#7: "Aw, fuck me."**

Woof walks around with no idea where to go as the fifth and final day of the Games goes by. It seems, by pure fluke, the other three tributes ended up on the other side of the limited area they have been stuck into and so he jogs across the barren rock in search of the last three.

He wishes somebody would order him to remember who they are because right now he has no idea anymore. He just knows they have to die so that he can fulfil Looper's dying request.

A cannon booms and has him moving at nearly double his previous speed. The cannon that fires right afterwards only has him go even faster still. Unknown to him the large boy from Four was able to take out Magnificent from One, only to die when the muscular One boy's body fell onto him and knocked them both into a lava lake.

Hours pass before Woof, led along by some fireflies here and there, comes across his final opponent. Valour from Two is alive, but burned badly from all the embers and a near fatal encounter with a shower of lava that sprayed too close for comfort.

He lays in agony and, upon seeing that his last opponent is the maniac boy from Eight he curses, knowing that he's all but beaten at this point.

"Aw, fuck me," he spits, furious.

Woof hears him loud and clear, marching right towards the scorched man on the rocky ground.

He has no idea why people are sickened at the mere sight of him and not only refuse to come near him but never discuss the Games that he emerged victorious from.

All he really did was do exactly as he was told.

* * *

 **#8: "Holy shit, stop obeying everybody's damn orders!"**

At the after-party Woof is incredibly quiet once again, having fulfilled all of the orders given to him over the past two weeks or so. He stands silent and reserved at the edge of the party, taking light sips from a nice glass of fruit punch.

It's a long debate with the Victors over who is going to speak to the newest member of the Victor family. The trio from two refuse point-blank as do the pair from One. Even the earlier Victors like Mizar and Pliny find themselves reluctant while Bear is still too broken to say much of anything, hardly over his trauma from the year prior.

It's Duke who steps up for the role and makes his way over to the first Victor from the Textiles District midway through the party. Depressed as he feels on the inside over the fact District Twelve has lost for the tenth year in a row - especially with the girl, Erin, having been his boyfriend's younger cousin – he's got enough strength still in him for this conversation.

"So, uh... Woof?" Duke asks to the boy just under ten years his junior.

"Yes?" Woof says, his voice soft and almost shy sounding.

"...Alright, I'm gonna lay it on thick here. Really straight, you know?" Duke says, massaging his temples. "As a collective, us Victors feel... upset. Grudge holding is a fickle thing for Victors, as our tributes kill each other's tributes every year. We get that the arena is where things change."

"...Ok?" Woof says, unsure.

"But..." Duke takes a deep sigh, wondering how his life has gotten to the point where he has to say this kind of grimdark shit. "You flat out raped Valour. Woof, that is so messed up. Not ok. Straight up wrong, you get me? I'm a known murderer as are all the gang and yet... I'm pissed. Angry. Just... I don't know. But as you're one of us now, we need to live alongside you in Games season. We need to be sure this will _**never**_ repeat!"

"I only did it because he told me to," Woof says, taking a single step back. He doesn't speak above a whisper.

Duke can't hold back a strangled sort of screech. He takes a deep, harsh breath of air and rests both hands upon Woof's shoulder, staring right into his eyes.

The tailor boy from Twelve has never looked more serious, not even when he fought in the final battle of his own Games three on one.

"Holy shit, stop obeying everybody's damn orders!" Duke yells, utterly incensed.

For a moment all is silent between the two young men, both Victors of a deadly Games. Woof is silent as he looks into Duke's cold, serious eyes.

"...Ok," Woof says, nodding agreeably. "Anything you say."

At that, it's almost like a spell has been lifted. Without any need for orders or any input of another Woof begins to get into the spirit of the party and start to somewhat enjoy himself. He begins talking with people and even cracking a few moderately decent jokes. It's like he's really just a particularly normal guy.

Duke stares, absolutely beyond the brink of confusion of what he has seen. Feeling more than a little creeped out he returns to where some of the other early Victors stand, quietly talking and drinking.

"How did it go?" Mizar asks, standing protectively close to Gwenith as he eyes the new Victor warily across the room. "He gonna be an issue?"

"I don't feel safe sleeping if he's nearby," Pliny mumbles, the young women yawning as Fir keeps her supported.

"No... he won't be a problem anymore," Duke says, gazing at Woof. "At least, not in the way we were fearing anyway. C'mon, let's just get out of here."

* * *

"You know, if any Victors from Eight are alive for the party... let's not ask about how Woof got ten kills," Katniss said, already walking on.

"I agree," Peeta said as he followed alongside her. "Better to at least try and focus on the good."

The couple soon came to the seventeenth face imprinted upon the sidewalk. A firm and serious looking young man stared back at them, a look of seeming disdain within his eyes.

"Rook Valiant," Katniss read. "What do you suppose he did in the arena?"

"Killed people?" Peeta guessed.

Both of the Star Crossed Lovers knew it was less _if_ Rook had killed others and moreso _how_ he had done so.

* * *

And there we have it, Woof's origin story! I'll admit, this one really went into some dark places I had not exactly foreseen, but to be honest that can be used as a way to describe basically any fic I have ever written. Canon tells us little about Woof, but it can sort of be said he is in a sense kind of like a 'sidekick' to Cecelia. That led to me having the thought of him being a guy who would do whatever anybody in power told him... which led to me basically going all out and making him do literally anything that anybody tells him. This insanity was the result. Whether it was good, bad or just WTF this means D8 have a Victor at last and now it's a race for Six and Ten to not be the only District lacking a Victor. Stay tuned for more!

* * *

 **Stats**

 **District 1:** Peridot Gaudy (8th Games), Crystal McCree (14th Games)

 **District 2:** Baron Overwhill (4th Games), Runa Peace (7th Games), Olga Machete (10th Games)

 **District 3:** Honorius Perthshire (5th Games)

 **District 4:** Museida Selkirk (3rd Games), Mags Flanagan (11th Games)

 **District 5:** Shunt Gaspar (12th Games)

 **District 6:** N/A

 **District 7:** Pliny Aransio (2nd Games), Fir Buzz (9th Games)

 **District 8:** Woof Casino (16th Games)

 **District 9:** Mizar Aldjoy (1st Games), Gwenith Rosebud (13th Games)

 **District 10:** N/A

 **District 11:** Bear Redfoot (15th Game)

 **District 12:** Duke Saint-Rose (6th Games)


	18. Rook Valiant

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Hunger Games. They belong to Suzanne Collins.

 **Note:** Here we are, the story continues with the tale of the Seventeenth Victor. Nice bit of world building going on with this one, at least in my personal viewpoint anyway. Not really got much to say except that I hope you guys find this guy to be another hit. It's really only a matter of time, after all, until a universally detested Victor comes along, eh? Here we go!

* * *

"I'm honestly surprised that it took this long for a second boy from District Two to emerge as the Victor," Katniss said, slowly shaking her head. "They seemed so lethal in all the Games I remember seeing."

"And yet, they still lost quite a few times," Peeta said, gazing down at Rook's imprinted face. "What do you think made Rook different from the first sixteen boys from Two, aside from Baron?"

"He was stronger? Or maybe seventeen was a lucky number," Katniss said, shrugging. "I've got no idea. All I know is he won and, by the looks of his stats, won in the way expected of a Career."

"I guess if we decide we'd like to know more Enobaria may fill us in." Peeta said, mostly to himself.

* * *

 **17th Annual Hunger Games**

 **Name:** Rook Valiant

 **Gender:** Male

 **District:** 2

 **Age:** 18

 **Kills:** 8

* * *

Sometimes District Two has 'Problem Victors'.

Olga has no patience for Problem Victors.

As the Seventeenth Hunger Games loom near it's easy to see that District Two is where the best quality of life in Panem can be found, outside of the Capitol itself. With jobs simple to find, very easy access to food and water, plenty of wealth overall and a thriving Academy for Careers taking away any fear of the Hunger Games it's become a solid, if perhaps warmongering, place to grow up.

She sits on the stage at the reaping, listening attentively as the Treaty of Treason is read out for the crowd and the Victors that Two has thus far named for all to hear. She's quite proud that her name garners the most cheers of all.

Life has become quite routine for Olga overall, not that she minds this fact. Routine and a rigid schedule suits the women in her mid-twenties just fine. She knows exactly how the next few weeks will go, down to the letter.

Two new tributes will Volunteer. She'll mentor one and this year Runa will mentor the other. That leaves gathering Sponsors in Baron's hands for the year. It's a simple task division but one that ensure District Two always has their tributes go far and almost, _almost_ , win.

This will be the year, she vows. This time District Two will gain their fourth Victor and be rewarded for their patriotism to the glorious Capitol. What happened to poor, promising Valour last year sickens her even now. It obviously happened too fast for the Capitol to stop it from occurring. They couldn't set off a trap while the maniac from Eight did those things, not without leaving no Victor at all.

It was just a nasty fluke and is why this year Olga plans to tell tributes Rook and Midnalia to kill off District Eight's pair first, even before District Six this time around. Last year's incident cannot be allowed to repeat.

She knows the tributes this year, of course, them having been selected as the Volunteers a whole month ago at this point. Mr Overwhill had given over the tribute's personal files and, as the poster girl and future Headmistress of the academy, Olga had first pick of who to Mentor.

She went for Rook. Strong, handsome and a beast with swords. A District Two classic.

As promising as the boy seems, she can't shake the feeling of foreboding she has within her. She can't claim to understand why. Rook was described to her as confident, obedient, merciless, powerful, loyal and more than ready, and willing, to enter the arena. His home life suggested no problems at all. A middle class boy with loud parents and louder siblings. Eight in fact and himself as the middle child amongst them all. Aside a stated dislike of large crowds there was no issues.

Maybe she's just being paranoid and longing for another Victor, she tells herself. A glance at Baron and Runa has her shaking her head. They've forgotten what it means to be a Victor from Two, more content to be all sweet, cuddly and affectionate with each other. They've even started sharing Baron's house now, living in domestic bliss. Bleh.

Olga wants more company and, seeing tough Rook and deadly Midnalia mounting the stage, she knows that after the Games end she might just have a new neighbour she could admit to enjoying spending the odd afternoon hanging out with, perhaps attending a bar alongside.

Yes, she thinks as Rook and Midnalia shake hands with their muscles bulging, this _will_ be District Two's year.

* * *

"Skills," Olga prompts her tribute on the train ride to the Capitol.

"Swords, spears, throwing knives, running, parkour, climbing," Rook lists, confidence filling his tone.

"Weaknesses?" she continues, firm.

"Crowds, small and agile targets, going without food," Rook says, sounding reluctant to admit to all this.

"Take out the small, fast targets at the very start of the Games," Olga says promptly. "The crowd will be smaller, they will be dead and thus no longer an issue and, by doing all that, the sponsors will give you any food you need that the Cornucopia cannot."

"Understood," Rook says as he soon helps himself to some fried chicken on the table. "I want to be the pack's leader. That alright?"

"If they say yes," Olga replies. "You may have competition for that role. Be warned, they will expect you to guide them and to keep them going, especially in the early days when things are still being sorted out."

"So, if I screw up as a leader I'm dead and the other Careers may be as well?" Rook asks, as if wanting to be perfectly sure.

"Yes, so if you become the leader you need to be sure you can handle it, for yourself and the pack," Olga says, firmly.

For a moment Olga's feeling of foreboding returns when she sees a glimmer of trouble in Rook's eyes, gone as quick as it arrives. He soon assures her that he's got it all under control and he'll lead the pack, before leading himself back home for the fourth District Two victory.

Things seem pretty simple after that. Midnalia falls in line to follow Rook pretty quickly, her being a fairly dependent sort of fighter. Rook assures her that under his leadership all will be fine. For once dinner on the train is a peaceful affair, not a single issue to be seen.

The only problem, a minor one at that, comes when the Escort decides to get a little background information on the tributes. Midnalia answers all questions directed towards her just fine, but Rook is particularly unwilling to discuss his home life or family at all.

"I don't want to talk about it," he says, shutting the topic down right away. "I don't see it mattering. Not like anybody is going to see them."

"Well, this year we in the Capitol are thinking of interviewing the families of tributes who reach the final eight," the Escort replies. "I think that-."

"-You'll see them regardless when I get that far," Rook says, shrugging as he plates up some more fried chicken. "Pass the salt?"

At the time of the dinner Olga thought little of this, soon seeing it as her tribute merely being focused entirely on the arena ahead of him and rightly so.

In retrospect, she knew she should have recognised the red flag from the moment it was raised. Alas, Baron and Runa had began pouring out some vodka at the same time and like _**hell**_ she was going to let them have the first sip!

* * *

The parade went fine, perhaps the best it ever had since Olga's own Games. By the time training began she found herself in relatively high spirits for the Games ahead. Rook was loyal, strong and seemed to be everything that a tribute from District Two should be. He'd be a fine addition to the Victor Village, especially if his goal of becoming the leader of the Career Pack were to be accomplished.

Olga cannot follow Rook, or Midnalia, down to the training centre but she can at least track down sponsors and get updates from a Gamemaker here and there. The rewards for her loyalty and proud patriotism are a real boon sometimes.

It's around halfway through the day, right after she secures a sponsorship from the ever reliable Capitol Vodka Emporium that she gets an update from one of the upper ranked Gamemakers.

"Good news or bad?" Olga asks automatically.

"We're fairly certain it's good," the Gamemaker replies.

He goes on to tell Olga of how Rook has easily charmed Golder and Star from One, securing himself as the pack's leader without question. Olga only feels all the more pleased when she is told of his impressive, tireless efforts in training and how a ten is looking to be extremely likely. An eleven or twelve is of course preferred, but Olga is fine to settle for double digits in general.

The only oddity bought up is that Rook was insistent to his allies that the huge boy from Seven not join their pack. He wouldn't hear of the idea of recruiting those from other Districts, claiming they'd just be bigger problems to deal with later on anyway. Olga knows Rook lacks any particular loathing for Outliers and merely thinks he is the sort who prefers a smaller, efficient unit to work with. It all adds up with how he doesn't like crowds.

The day passes peacefully, but both Olga and the Gamemakers miss the rather amused, practically devious look in Rook's eyes as he further vetoes the suggestion of letting Herman from Four join their alliance.

* * *

Having attended the academy for years Rook is well versed with all the nuances of the Hunger Games and the etiquette training for the interview is no issue at all. Not even a minute into his interview and the crowd already adore him. He presents himself as powerful, but fun. A good mixture between work and play, an angle the crowd seem to lap up like milk.

"I'm honestly just ready to get out of the tribute building, stretch my legs and get going," he says with a relaxed smile. "My allies are really counting on me to lead them through the battle ahead, so how about we just get on with it?"

With a handshake to Mortimer and a wave to the crowd Rook left the stage to a grand applause, greater than his allies before him. The pack seemed united, all ready and willing to follow Rook's leadership to the very end, however the Games went. They couldn't help but snicker at the girl from Three, a wisp of a women who openly stated her willingness to jump off the pedestal and get it all over with. She felt ready to die after a life of torment from poverty and depression.

The other Careers kept up the snickering at their pitiful foe, but the gears in Rook's mind appeared to be rapidly turning.

Once again, the devious look in his eyes went unseen by all.

* * *

"Where were you?" Olga scolds Rook as he enters the District Two floor in the dead hours of the night. "You need rest. You will _die_ if you are sleepy at the bloodbath."

"I was on the roof," he says, polite per the norm. "Woke up an hour ago and needed to just walk around a bit to tire myself out again."

Olga raises an eyebrow but doesn't push it. She can't claim to have a perfect sleep schedule herself. With a reminder of the importance of sleep she sends Rook off to bed and orders him to remain in his room until sunrise.

He doesn't disobey, but it doesn't matter any longer.

He's ready.

* * *

Olga has to admit, the arena this year looks to be quite an impressive one. It's a massive castle surrounded by a moor. Muddy ground, a vast lake, over three hundred rooms within the castle.

Pure brilliance.

The Cornucopia is well supplied and stands in the centre of the vast castle courtyard. Olga notes all the props nearby such as cannons, a guillotine and even a catapult. Props she can instantly tell are very much the real thing. She doesn't doubt that at least one tribute will end up dead from them by the day's end.

When the gong rings the tributes charge in as they do every year. As Rook and Midnalia charge for the Eights while the Ones take over 'Six duty' for the year, she notices that the girl from Three didn't kill herself after all. She alone flees out into the moor without looking back.

Rook spots her fleeing as he finishes off the girl from Eight, but pays her no further mind. Olga is certain that he'll track her down once the main battle is over and done with.

By the time the dust finally settles and the screams at the Cornucopia are mostly quiet, eleven tributes have fallen into the realm of death. Their corpses are bloodied, mangled and broken. A far cry from the living children they'd been not even ten minutes ago.

The bloodbath officially ends with a twelve death when the laughing, jeering pair from One tie up the boy from Twelve and load him into the catapult. He's sent flying miles into the air and slams into the forcefield, fried in an instant. The Ones love it, Midnalia doesn't say anything as she sorts the supplies and Rook... he seems to disapprove as he looks on into the sky where the Twelve boy had vanished.

"Bit overkill, don't you think?" he asks Star.

"He was gonna die anyway," she says, shrugging. "If we didn't somebody else would have."

"It was a fucking catapult," Rook says flatly. "Whatever, dead is dead. That's half the field gone then?"

"Twelve left, yeah," Golden says as he tries to choose between two particularly sharp and deadly swords.

Before long the alliance of four begin to sort the supplies and rest from the bloodbath. Typical stuff that doesn't hold much of Olga's attention, unlike the brief alternation between Zye from Nine and Leather from Ten within the castle's dungeons that leave the Nine girl fleeing with a broken hand.

But her attention is quickly back on her tribute when he gears up with a large backpack of supplies, a sword and several knives before striding towards the moor.

"Hey, where are you going?" Golden asks.

"I'm gonna explore," Rook says. "Get a good look at the layout of the arena and see if I can find anything interesting. Besides, I saw the Three girl run off this way. I'll be back when it gets dark, maybe sooner."

The pack let him go, still sorting through the bounty of the Cornucopia. They won't need their leader until it's time for the first real hunt.

Rook confidently explores the moor for a while, pausing every so often to check the ground. Olga checks his file again, seeing no evidence of tracking skills, but Rook isn't looking for tracks. He instead finds little circles drawn in the dirt every so often and follows them through the moor bit by bit, eventually coming to where the girl from Three had wandered.

Olga smirks as Rook finally spots her kneeling beside a ditch, sniffling. An easy kill, but one sure to give him extra sponsor attention. Besides, it's always good to eliminate another District nice and early in the Games.

Rook approaches her, not bothering with being subtle. Of course, Olga thinks, in this case there's clearly no benefit to stealth anyway.

In moments he is beside her and moves to kneel before her. For a moment all is silent. Olga awaits the first stab intently.

"Hey," Rook says, polite and courteous. "I got the stuff. They suspect nothing. Any wounds at all?"

"I'm fine. I got out fast," says the Three girl, Socket. "Think your Mentor is gonna be mad?"

"Probably, but it's not like she is allowed to withhold sponsors from me. If somebody really wants me to get something, she has to send it," Rook says with a small laugh. "Anyway, we have about four hours until they'll get suspicious. Two after that until they realise what I've done. Let's do this."

And so, they do. As the powerful boy from Two and the suicidal girl from Three share out Rook's supplies and start to traverse the moor Olga finds herself slack jawed and stunned by what she is seeing play out on the screen.

Rook has ditched the Career Pack.

In fact, he's deliberately left them crippled.

It takes a whole bottle of vodka to stop her fit full of screaming and shouting.

* * *

Rook has never liked crowds, not for a moment of his life. With his family being an ever bigger, louder and hard hitting crowd it is little wonder as to why. Being the middle of nine children gained him none of the trust of the elders nor special attention towards the youngest, only having to babysit the youths and take hits from those older than him.

No, he certainly doesn't like crowds of any sort. This dislike extends itself to the Career Pack and that didn't change at any point before the Games began and certainly not after.

It had been a simple enough plan to put into action. Step up as the ideal leader of the pack, have his allies rely completely upon him, cut off access to any Outliers who may have given the pack additional numbers... and then ditch the Pack after surviving the Bloodbath and making off with a good chunk of supplies. By then, Rook knew they'd be facing serious issues without their leader.

But the plan soon had another step added into it. Upon hearing of Socket's suicidal state Rook had offered her a deal the night before the Games began. Help him on his way to the Victor's crown and he'd ensure her death would be painless and also slip some solid cash to her family on his Victory Tour, a thing he had full intent to keep his word on. Caring nothing for herself and yet immensely for her family Socket had agreed, thus diverting her planned fate of jumping to the landmines.

This was why Rook walked miles away from the oblivious pack and instead alongside the lanky girl from Three. It was certainly among the strangest alliance seen as yet in the Hunger Games.

"So what's the plan?" Socket asks, barely above a whisper.

"Well the one thing I told the pack that wasn't complete crap was that I wanted to scout the arena. That's the plan, getting a lay of the land," Rook replies. "If we find somebody I'll take care of them, you just try to stand back and not get killed."

"I'll do my best," Socket tells him, her head hung low. "...Aren't you worried? I mean, after what happened to the boy from your District last year..."

"We do not talk about Valour's fate," Rook says, quick to end the conversation before it starts. "The pair from Eight are dead. It won't happen."

Socket drops it.

* * *

By the time the rest of the pack start to realise that Rook has played them for fools a cannon has already boomed, caused by the deserter from Two. Taking down the large boy from Seven serves to better his own chances, true enough, but being on the move all day with a new alliance whilst his allies stood around doing nothing has all but secured the attention of the sponsors that did not pledge ultimate loyalty to a District, unlike the gem stores that favour One and One alone.

As Bugsy from Seven falls down dead a parachute drops containing two bottles of fine energy soda, two beef rolls and a rather acidic letter from Olga yelling at Rook to get back to his real alliance. He merely tears up the note and passes half the sponsor haul to Socket.

"Why?" she asks, as glum as ever.

"I don't see the logic in treating my one ally like shit," Rook says, shrugging. "I said you'd die painlessly but... eh, why not make your last few days alive painless as well?"

Socket doesn't argue it, simply nodding and biting into the offered food. Nightfall arrives fast and the anthem displays the faces of the thirteen dead. While Rook and Socket hide out in a dark cave near a ditch deep in the moor the angry, overshadowed Career pack of Three light torches and head out into the darkness.

A tiny boy from Eleven is slain during the night, the Careers taking their anger and bitterness on him due to Rook being out of sight and sword range.

* * *

While the Careers spend time hunting around the moor for tributes and Olga tries to keep her temper in check from the mentoring seat, Rook leads Socket back to the large castle. It doesn't take a Gamemaker with thousands of cameras to know that plenty of tributes are hiding out in the massive building somewhere.

As the castle is six storey's tall, maybe even seven, it's clear that a wide search is going to take quote a long time and every door opened will only give the hidden tributes a warning that danger is near. Stealth won't be viable.

Rook doesn't see it as a problem, having worked out a plan rather quickly.

It's pretty basic, all in all. Socket simply kneels over and cries loudly, so depressed that she doesn't have to fake or exaggerate a thing, while Rook hides out of sight from the doors to deal with any tributes who come to investigate.

The so called 'crying trap' ends up luring two tributes to their untimely deaths within forty minutes. The plan is only foiled when the girl from Twelve witnesses Rook killing the boy from Four and flees for her life. Knowing that knowledge of the trap is likely to get spread around Rook soon has himself and Socket on the move once again.

"What do we do now?" Socket asks, glum.

"We get ourselves ready for battle," Rook tells her. "I have an idea. That pack won't know what hit it."

"Because they'll be dead?" Socket guesses.

Rook's confident smirk is all the answer that Socket needs.

* * *

After the crying trap is sprung and exposed every Outlier within the castle walls knows that the time for hiding is up. By the time Rook and Socket exit the castle after a decent night of sleep all the Outliers who still live have fled into the Moor, incorrectly assuming that if one Career is nearby then the rest must be as well.

If Rook feels annoyed that the kills he intended to make have escaped and, as one cannon at midday proves, being stolen then he doesn't show it.

He spends his time getting the cannons within the arena positioned in the direction of the one entrance into the castle grounds. He spends some time after that loading them up.

"Need a hand?" Socket mumbles, laying on her back as she stares aimlessly at the clouds in the sky.

"I'll be fine," Rook says, loading up one of the last cannons. "Can you even lift these things? They're heavy, you know."

Socket just shrugs, going back to staring. Time passes silently until, his word done, Rook allows himself a bread to down some water.

"So, what do you plan to do if you win?" Socket asks, randomly.

"Have my own house for one thing. I can't stand company," Rook mutters, shaking his head. "I've had enough of it over the years. Besides that, probably get into playing hover ball professionally. Always wanted to do that."

"Sounds nice," Socket says, bland.

"...You have a dream?" Rook asks, tossing aside an empty water bottle. "I mean, besides of dying. That doesn't count."

"Does it matter? I'm dying in a dew days," Socket says, still staring upwards.

"Doesn't mean you don't have one. C'mon, may as well give the audience something to listen to while we wait for my ex-alliance to show up," Rook says, tearing into a meat pastry.

Socket doesn't speak for a while, the depression consuming her like the thickest of smog clouds. Rook says nothing, figuring that the topic is dropped and continues to eat.

"I'd like to fly, just like a bird," Socket says after a while. "Just once."

"If by some fluke I die and you win by default, I think the Capitol could make that happen," Rook says, managing to smile. "Not all dreams are impossible, just hard... like me getting away from crowds for once. But hey, I got what I wanted. See? No crowd here."

"You still have company," Socket says, returning to watching the sky.

"Two is company, not a crowd. That's three," Rook says with a laugh.

It's a pleasant, slow day for the odd alliance. The same can't be said for the others as a rainstorm begins, thundering down throughout the night upon the moor. The outer parts of the moor are consumed by the water, forcing the remaining tributes closer together. The flooding ends up sweeping away two tributes to a watery demise, including Midnalia.

As much as Rook sees the Hunger Games as 'just business' and set up his fake alliance to fail, he can't help feeling a little bad for Midnalia. The feeling soon passes though as he continues to feast on the meat pastries, fairly content and sheltered from the weather.

* * *

A desperate attack from the girl from Ten, driven mad from hunger and moderate blood loss, takes Rook off of his guard at the sunrise of the final day. It's hard to predict what the insane may do, and jumping off the top of the outer wall and onto him with a knife in hand is among the hardest of things to see coming.

He struggles, but the girl struggles even moreso and manages to stab him twice in his left shoulder. Knife nearly meets bone, but a moment later knife meets spine. Rook wheezes, relieved as the girl drops dead upon the courtyard ground. Socket drops her bloodied knife and resumes her constant, depressive cloud watching.

"Be more careful," she tells him, wiping away a few tears absentmindedly.

With his left shoulder aflame in some highly serious pain, Rook promises through gritted teeth that he will.

* * *

By sundown Golden and Star hunt down the last Outlier aside from Socket and make their way back to the massive castle. They know very well that it's where they will find Rook and probably the girl from Three.

They have no idea, of course, that Rook and Socket are allies.

As they approach the castle they see Socket sitting around up ahead, weeping to herself. Training takes over and they charge with their blades held firmly. Socket only has a head start in her favour, nothing more.

But that's all she needs in the end.

Rook's the one with the cannons and the matches to light them with. He does exactly that once Socket has moved safely past the cannons.

"Cover your ears," he warns her.

Cannon fire, one much more crude and vicious than the typical type heard every year, echoes across the damp moor. Golden and Star stand no chance against the cannonballs, their bodies bloody and horrifically broken in mere seconds. They lay sprawled out, dead and lacking any of the beauty they were known for in life.

Rook cheered, his victory all but certain at this point. The cannons that fired were music to his ears.

But, seeing Socket still stood breathing, he knew the Games had not been played out yet.

"Thanks for being a decent ally. You're a credit to Three. A fine second placer," Rook said, stretching out. "We gonna duel, or...?"

"I'm ready to die," Socket said, shrugging.

"...You said you wanted to fly, right?" Rook asked, an idea entering his head.

Socket nodded, confused. Her confusion only grew as, with serious effort, Rook dragged over the catapult and wound it down into firing position.

"Consider your dream fulfilled," Rook said, gesturing to the bucket of the catapult. "If you're dying regardless, why not die flying?"

For the first time in her life Socket managed to smile, even if just for a brief moment.

It was a moment Rook wasn't going to forget.

"Enjoy being a Victor," Socket said as she got into the catapult. "I don't think your Mentor is going to be happy that you totally went against all the plans your District tends to follow."

"It worked, didn't it?" Rook said, snickering a bit. "Farewell, Capitol bless."

One goodbye to her family for the cameras to see later and Socket was launched through the air, silent and serene. Rook watched her soar away, up to when she struck the forcefield for a quick and clean death.

He gave a salute to his fallen ally, before cheering in triumph as the trumpets sounded to announced his victory. As the hovercraft descended to pick him up he could only find it in himself to yell one thing.

"Finally! My own house! No more fucking crowds!"

* * *

The after party is a mixed affair for Olga. Her tribute won and District Two was victorious once again. With four Victors now it seems like their lead is only going to get bigger and bigger, never to be caught.

But she doesn't feel best pleased either.

She's angry. Angry that Rook turned his back on everything that a tribute from Two should be, angry that he lied to her from the start and refused to return to his alliance.

Angry that he joined forces with an Outlier.

Rook doesn't seem to notice, or care, about any of this or the glares she sends his way. He just hangs out at the edge of the party, enjoying the good food on offer. People come and go towards him, but he's not being flocked. It seems the Capitolites caught onto his dislike of crowds and don't wish to overwhelm their shiny new Victor.

Olga doubts it'll last long.

"You seem unhappy," Baron says as he walks up alongside Runa. "I'd have thought you'd be pleased we saved one this year."

"He did it the wrong way. There was no honour or patriotism to that shameless display," Olga spits, disgusted. "Worse yet, he's going to be a Mentor now. He'll be poisoning the minds of the future generations of tributes."

"I think the main point is coming back alive. Does it really matter how when the important thing is staying alive?" Runa asks. "Seems he pulled that part off pretty well."

"He did it wrong," Olga hisses.

"He did it like Runa here," Baron says, an arm around his girlfriend. "If you recall, Runa didn't join the pack. Sword tried to kill her."

"Considering what he did to Glamour I'm glad I bolted when I did," Runa says, shuddering. "A Victor is a Victor. He's the one who made no fatal mistakes, so he deserves to be alive."

"Seems like my father taught him well," Baron says, a bit of disgust in his voice. He's never for a second agreed with the way his District trains for and enjoys the Hunger Games.

The knowledge that he started this whole thing keeps him up frequently.

Olga soon leaves the couple behind, annoyed at how little they get it. All it takes is one Victor breaking the rules and then District Two won't be quite so privileged anymore. Her Grandpa knew it, her father knew it and she sure as hell knows it.

One look at Rook laughing at a joke some random Capitolite told him only makes her scowl all the uglier. She'll have to keep a much closer eye on her tributes in future years, keep her hold firm to ensure they do not go off the grid and 'pull a Rook'.

Sometimes District Two has 'Problem Victors'.

Olga has no patience for Problem Victors.

* * *

"Four Victors already. I guess this is when District Two pulled ahead and never had their Victor count overtaken?" Katniss said, her arms crossed.

"When you consider their training academy, wealth and privileges... it makes sense," Peeta replied. "Makes you wonder how many Victors they would've had if the Games kept going."

"I don't want to even start thinking about that," Katniss says with a shake of her head.

The couple kept walking and it wasn't long before they reached the eighteenth face on the sidewalk. A firm looking young woman with short hair and an expression of discipline and focus looked back up at them.

"Isobel Sparks," Peeta read. "Seems like a tough woman, I'll give her that."

"Wasn't she the one who excelled at unarmed combat? I vaguely recall somebody saying that once?" Katniss remarked, uncertain.

* * *

There we are, another Victor for District Two! While some such as Olga follow the rules to a letter and see them as a sort of Gospel Truth, others like Rook prefer to just do it their own way. I mean, if it works who can blame him? Olga sure can! I've always liked the idea of a Career splitting off to go it alone, but I felt that'd be just a touch cliché if it were the only detail, so I figured why not throw in a very unlikely alliance where Rook does much of the work and him setting up the pack to fail for good measure? Hope you guys liked Rook. If not, no worries, as there is still plenty more to come!

* * *

 **Stats**

 **District 1:** Peridot Gaudy (8th Games), Crystal McCree (14th Games)

 **District 2:** Baron Overwhill (4th Games), Runa Peace (7th Games), Olga Machete (10th Games), Rook Valiant (17th Games)

 **District 3:** Honorius Perthshire (5th Games)

 **District 4:** Museida Selkirk (3rd Games), Mags Flanagan (11th Games)

 **District 5:** Shunt Gaspar (12th Games)

 **District 6:** N/A

 **District 7:** Pliny Aransio (2nd Games), Fir Buzz (9th Games)

 **District 8:** Woof Casino (16th Games)

 **District 9:** Mizar Aldjoy (1st Games), Gwenith Rosebud (13th Games)

 **District 10:** N/A

 **District 11:** Bear Redfoot (15th Game)

 **District 12:** Duke Saint-Rose (6th Games)


	19. Isobel Sparks

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Hunger Games. They belong to Suzanne Collins.

 **Note:** You know how it is for me. I start typing and then suddenly I find it impossible to stop until a whole new chapter has been churned out. I'd say I may have issues, but 'may' implies room for some doubt. Almost done with the second decade already, how'd that even happen? Enough rambling, let's go!

* * *

"So, unarmed combat?" Peeta asked. "How's that work? Like, strong punches?"

"I'd guess so," Katniss said with a shrug. "I know plenty out Outlier tributes could throw a good punch, but how did that overcome the Career pack? They'd be armed with swords, spears and all kinds of other sharp things."

"Maybe the Cornucopia had no weapons that year?" Peeta guessed, unsure. "But then again the Careers would still be stronger than a non-Career hand to hand and there'd be more of them... huh... I don't know."

"I guess stranger things have happened in the arena. Remember what Haymitch told us about the disaster of the Thirty Fourth Games?" Katniss asked, a dark and wry sort of smirk on her face.

"Yeah, that was... really something," Peeta said, a soft laugh without humour passing through his lips. "...I guess Isobel sure proved that you don't need a sword to kill. Or a knife, or spear or..."

The pair stood in silence, nothing more needing to be said.

* * *

 **18th Annual Hunger Games**

 **Name:** Isobel Sparks

 **Gender:** Female

 **District:** 5

 **Age:** 16

 **Kills:** 4

* * *

Life in Five isn't so bad, really. It's all about following orders, keeping a routine and waiting for that golden opportunity to have a little fun. For me, that opportunity is spending time with Keen when we're not stuck working at the power plants for most of our waking hours. It wasn't much, but what we had together made Five not the worst of places to me.

It could have been District Six. I like to think I'm always aware of how things could get worse.

I always knew, for example, that being reaped for the Hunger Games would make things about as worse as they could become. Having been reaped for the Games this year, I know I wasn't inaccurate with what I'd assumed.

I'd thought that, perhaps, I would stand a better chance than most girls from Five have over the years. I'm strong and quite agile after all; Keen calls me a warrior. A pet name, you could say. But one knife barely missing my neck taught me better. A single mistake and I'm dead. If I'm to get through this, I have to stay completely focused. I have to be smart about this.

I have to kill. The boy from Three hadn't done anything wrong, but I needed that backpack badly... his blood is on my hands, long after I washed it all away.

I've been meditating from my high point in the arena for about an hour, trying to relax and get my focus back, but it's impossible. The bruises on my side are nothing to the guilt.

To think, Keen and I had been not so jokingly bringing up the idea of marriage just two weeks ago. In a place as harsh as Panem, what's the point in waiting?

Two weeks. If the bloodbath twelve hours ago is an eternity by this point, then what does that make two weeks?

This year they threw us into a bamboo forest that covers a large, flora covered mountain. I almost think it's beautiful, but things of real beauty don't cause the deaths of innocent kids. Just an hour ago a rockfall took somebody out, not that I know who it is.

Maybe the girl from Eight. She was the one who called the Hunger Games barbaric and evil. I took the rockfall as a warning to keep my feelings to myself. I've not let much slip, just enough for me to be known as the 'stoic, athletic one'. It's not been enough to get me killed by a rockfall at least.

I'm not sure how much time passes as I meditate, enough that the anthem has ended long ago, but it's not really that long before I can tell that I am not alone anymore. I should've known that tributes would flock for the high ground sooner than later.

On all fours I crawl to the edge of my perch, gazing down below. Sure enough it's the Career pack of the year. I crawl myself back, unwilling to engage them just yet. Not when all four of them survived the opener and, just my luck, recruited somebody to help them slaughter the rest of us.

Of course it'd be Joba, my District Partner. Two year my elder and two feet my literal overshadower.

I return to meditating, relaxing my mind as I focus. Focus, focus, focus...

When you relax and truly drain out all of your distractions it becomes easy to overhear what people around you are saying. Though, heh, I guess the fact the Careers don't bother to keep their voices low helps me out too.

"How many left again?" the boy from One asks. I've come to see he's a bit slow witted.

"Besides us there are ten," says the girl from One. The leader this year, I believe. "Try and remember the facts for once Glaze."

Glaze has little to say, but the pair from Two sure do. Rock and Roll, a pair of unfortunately named twins who wield giant clubs and yearn to hit something. My plan is to stay hidden up here and ensure that it's not me they hit.

I saw what they did to the pair from Six and it's something I doubt I'll ever forget.

Joba has little to say amongst his powerful allies, a move that is probably for the best. Loyalty only goes so far amongst the Career Pack, especially to the Outlier amongst them. It takes only a slip of the tongue for a blade to enter one's gut.

One moment I'm sitting on my perch trying to get back to my meditation in an attempt to calm my soul. The next moment the platform I'm on breaks. No doubt the Gamemakers forcing a fight. It's only my fast reflexes that save me from falling and breaking an arm, or worse.

But even after my flawless three point landing, I don't think that being seen by the entire Career Pack helps any. Joba remains neutral, while the other four eye me like hungry dogs. Just like the ones that guard the power plant during the dead hours.

"Well, look who it is, it's the midget girl from Five," Rock says, playfully elbowing his twin. "Five feet to match her District."

"And another foot onto that for when she's buried six feet under," Roll adds, snickering.

I don't rise to the bait, five feet is hardly what I'd call 'midget size'. But I don't run either, not when we're up high and only a steep cliff awaits behind me. With not even a small knife to my name, I'm going to have to confront the entire Career Pack at once.

Five against one is really unfair.

They keep up the mocking, but I simply ready myself. My feet are firm, my fists are balled and I'm ready for the fight of a lifetime. I feel ready, but it's hard to keep my focus.

The thought of mom, dad, Grandma Lily and even Keen watching me is a distracting one. The idea that they may even watch me die is even worse. We may have always been poor and busy around the clock, but what little time we had to spend all together... it's a treasure greater than the riches of the entire Capitol.

I was never one to delay the inevitable. That's why, after another minute or two of the twins' mockery I clear my throat.

"So, are we gonna do this or what?" I ask them, my eyes narrowed and my heart heavy.

"Knock it off you two," the girl from One tells the Twos. "Let's kill her and keep moving. You said it yourselves, she's tiny, so this won't take long."

Rock and Roll salute with their clubs, both wearing matching nasty smirks as they charge at me. But I'm not afraid. I stand my ground, ready to do what comes natural once they reach me.

Five against one is really unfair.

...It's really unfair _**for them**_.

Rock swings his club, it being a cue for me to leap back. He stares as I backflip through the air, unable to snap out of it before I land a harsh kick against his chest. As he stumbles I take the chance to leap up and spin around five times. With each rotation my boot smacks into his face. As he falls back with a shout of agony I can see his nose is broken.

The yell from behind me confirms that the battle is far from one. Not when Roll is running over, wildly swinging her club around. The sight of her brother in pain has her in a frenzy, but it's a frenzy I can make sure of. She lacks discipline right now.

When people get angry, they start to make mistakes.

I land one hell of a punch between her eyes as soon as her club is lowered. She howls in the night as blood pours down her face. One charge and a flying kick later has her sprawled out on her back, panting.

I shout, struggling as Glaze grabs me from behind. It's clear he's alarmed by what he's seeing and has me held tightly for his District Partner to finish off. I won't make it easy for him though. I make him have to fight to keep me contained.

"Quick, kill her Posh!" he yells, grunting from the effort. He grunts louder when I elbow him in the ribs. "Kill her!"

The girl from One, Posh runs over with a sword in hand. I figure that it's enough time to stop toying around and, upon digging my feet into the ground, spin around. Glaze yells from the motion, and then yells a whole lot louder as Posh's sword cuts into his back. He slums over while I run to the cliff face with Posh after me, right as the Twos start to get back up.

I'm not surprised to see that Joba has taken the chance to run off by this point. I guess he'll live longer that way.

"Get back here!" Posh yells, ignoring her dying District Partner.

I see fit to grant her wish, as she asked me so nicely. One run up the wall later has me flip backwards and land right behind her. I've punches her face first into the wall before she knows what I've done. As she howls and screams over her broken tooth I see I've got bigger problems now.

Two twins with a club each and equally bad tempers.

But, like I said, anger makes people start making mistakes and if you ask me the twins are making a lot of them. They swing wildly without really aiming. It's all too easy for me to keep dodging out of the way while Posh keeps screaming and Glaze's cannon fires distantly.

"Fight us you coward!" Rock shouts.

"Only a coward runs away!" Roll screams.

I know they'll be angry at me for obeying them, but I make it a personal rule to do as I am told. That's why both end up laid out on the ground with extra bruises a few moments later, both snarling and shouting from the two for one roundhouse kick they got hit with.

"Had enough?" I ask them between panting. "Still think I'm a helpless midget?"

Clearly not. Posh is back up and ready for more, swinging her sword viciously as blood pools from her mouth and down her chin. It's easy to dodge out of the way, but all it takes is me making one mistake and the blade making contact.

"You can't keep dodging," she shouts, coming close to gutting me. "Sooner or later you'll have to stop. We can take punches, we're trained to absorb the pain better than most. You're fucked!"

I hadn't wanted to kill another person, but it's looking like I have no choice. Especially when Rock and Roll are starting to stir again, soon to be back for more. A jump kick knocks Posh back, her sword falling away. I don't give her a chance to grab out a knife or take a few steps back. I grip her by the front of her shirt, readying my fist.

Readying the most powerful punch I can muster.

"You said you can absorb pain, but that doesn't mean you're immune to it. It means you've got a limit to what you can take!" I shout, clenching my fist tightly. "So allow me to go all out and _**force you to surrender**_! As my dear Grandma Lily once told me... go beyond, _**plus infinity**_!"

One moment Posh is shouting and screaming for the Twos to back her up. The next moment my fist throbs as it makes contact with her face.

The next moment my fist is covered in blood and Posh's skull has been completely caved in, her cannon firing right away. I let her corpse fall backwards, down the steep cliff. I do, after all, still have a pair of aggressive twins to deal with.

The sight of their dead allies and how their other ally has ran away makes Rock and Roll wisen up a bit, both vanishing away into the night pretty soon after that. Once I've looted the bodies of any useful gear I do the same, leaving their remains for the hovercraft to collect.

I spend the night besides a tranquil, shallow river. Once I've cleared away all the blood, the physical blood of my victims anyway, I return to meditating. After the battle I just went through, I need to sooth myself. I need to get the screams and deaths off of my mind.

By the way, I forgot to tell you something. You and the Gamemakers, that is.

I'm a karate master.

* * *

Time passes slowly in the arena. It's another long Hunger Games, no doubt caused by how I wiped out half of the Career Pack during the first night. With two of the biggest killers already dead, it's little wonder that the Games have already dragged on to the ninth day with ten tributes still left.

Joba is out there somewhere, but so are Rock and Roll. By now they'll have probably been sponsored all the medicine they need to recover after I thrashed them. I can't take them so utterly off of their guards again, so I know it'll be a tough fight if we cross paths again.

Since then I've probably not done much from a viewer's perspective. Just surviving on what fruit I can find growing around the mountain and spending the nights up in the trees growing here and there where the bamboo doesn't. The bamboo gave me the perfect material to craft a staff out of. It's not perfect, but it's been enough to drive off the panther mutt that came my way on the sixth day.

I'm confident that I can handle a tribute with my fists and feet alone, but for a mutt I'll admit to needing a bit more.

I sit by a shallow stream, trying to keep myself calm with my meditation. It's a lost cause though. Any time I let my mind wander I'm reminded of myself slaughtering Posh on the first night.

They started it. I just defended myself. That's been my mantra that I tell myself in hopes I might stay sane.

I soon abandon meditation and look at my reflection in the water. My dark face is one of a killer, something I can never take back.

As Grandma Lily would say, this world of ours has no time for tears. You either get busy living, or get busy dying. I know which of those things I would prefer to be busy with.

"I'll be home soon," I whisper.

The boom of a cannon tells me that home suddenly got closer, or perhaps my own death did. The hovercraft descends further down the mountain to pick up the body, an action that has me quick to move to the high ground. I don't fancy the idea of running across a panther mutt or Rock and Roll anytime soon.

But an hour later my solitude is gone, thrown away the moment I stumble across Joba. Over a week on the mountain hasn't been kind to the burly boy from the power plants. Between the dirt and the dried blood, he's a mess.

It's a short while before he speaks, perhaps not even recognising me until now.

"Isobel? You're still alive?" he says, clutching his hip.

"For now," I say.

"No shock. After what you did the first night..." he trails off, hissing in pain. "How did you only score a five?"

"I didn't show off my skills," I tell him. "I wouldn't want to make myself into a target."

"Right, right," he trails off into another hiss of pain. "The Twos are gonna be hunting for you."

"They can try," I say, punching a tree. As I expected a large plum falls into my hand. "Plum?"

"Allergic," Joba says, still hissing and wincing.

Unfortunate luck, but as I bite into the plum I know that it means more for me. It's a frightening, strange thought that one plum may mean the difference between life and death.

It's some time before either Joba or I say another word to each other. I can't lower my guard even around him; in the arena, District Loyalty won't last forever. Especially not if only nine of us are left now. If he tries to attack me, I'll have to be ready for a fight.

But after he saw me fighting the Careers on the first night and ran away into the darkness... I don't think he will.

"It's hopeless," he says after a while, sitting at the base of a tree. "Hopeless."

"What's hopeless?" I ask him, moving closer. "And how so?"

"Everything," he says. "Just... we cannot win. Five almost never wins. Shunt only did because he knew how to build a flamethrower. I'm bleeding on the inside, you won't be able to catch them off guard again... and the twins have armour now, so your punches will be futile anyway. It's hopeless."

"It's only futile from the moment we give up, and that's not what I'm about," I tell him, kneeling down out of range of his knife. "You need to have some hope if you want to survive, in the arena and out."

"Hope's dangerous and dead," Joba says, turning away from me.

I know a lost cause when I see it. I can't remain in place anyway, not when the other seven could be anywhere at all, perhaps staring at us from the cover of darkness. So, I wish Joba well and take my leave from this part of the mountain and towards the looming mass of bamboo.

"Hope's not dead nor dangerous, Joba," I tell him as I leave. "Hope's a good thing, maybe the best of things. No good thing ever truly dies."

I leave him with those words as I make my way through the bamboo and further up the mountain. I can't help but wonder if I, too, may end up like Joba and have my hope torn away. I can't predict the future, whether it's short or long, but I can't deny that ending up as a hopeless husk is not impossible.

I wish, not for the first time, that I'd been born into an era before the Hunger Games. Alas, it's all I know and all I may ever know.

* * *

The thirteenth day is wet, a downpour covering the mountain and consuming the lower levels. It's nowhere near me, but I don't dare to assume that this puts my odds any higher than they were top start with. Are they high or low? I honestly have no idea anymore.

During the eleventh night, they came. The mutts. Horrible black beings I never got a proper look at aside their red eyes. It seems that we'd gone too long without killing each other and the Gamemakers wanted to do something different than a Feast this year.

Nine tributes became four. I had no time to feel a sense of relief that Rock had fallen victim to the mutts, not when Joba's face appeared in the sky right afterwards. I wonder if he died as hopeless and in pain as he did when we last spoke.

I think deep down I know the answer to that question is a sure-fire yes.

I shiver, not for the first time or even the fiftieth. It's cold and I'm in bad need of some shelter. The bite marks across my back from those red eyed mutts only serve to make me shudder even more. I wonder if the other three are getting close.

I wonder who the two besides Roll are. I've honestly forgotten.

My tired legs carry me onwards until I come to a large, gaping cave built into the mountain. It seems about as fine a place as any to take shelter from the rain. I stumble forth, about ready to slump over and lose myself in slumber for a few hours.

The battle cry tells me I'll be doing no such thing.

The small girl from Eleven charges at me, swinging a knife to and fro. She looks half mad, her appearance beaten, bloody and scratched. I see the madness in her eyes as she keeps her knife in a flurry of movement. Under the rainfall I dodge and leap about, her knife failing to strike my flesh.

As tired as I am and insane as she must be, it's not really a contest of any kind. I'm still stronger and a few inches bigger than the twelve year old. I'd intended to just punch her in the face and send her fleeing into the night.

I hadn't intended to knock her backwards and over the side of the cliff. The crack and the cannon confirm the worst to me

Sitting in the cave, meditating deeply, I suddenly see that I was wrong. It is a contest after all.

It's a contest to bare the storm of my guilt that threatens to swallow me up.

"Remember what Grandma Lily told you," I order myself. "It's not always about baring the storm, but learning how to dance in the rain."

I think for a fair while as the rain keeps falling. I think about my Grandma, always so wise. I think about mom and dad, so caring and worn out from work. I think of Keen, the smile always on her face even when things looked pretty grim.

I need to win and make it back. I must, I must, I must.

A parachute eventually falls outside the cave. When I open it up and put on the metal gauntlets contained within I clench my fists tightly.

I'm as ready as I possibly could be. After killing three people... what's one more? Either I die and don't feel anymore guilt, or I win and have decades to learn how to deal with it. It's no excuse to not give it my all in the finale.

I walk into the rain at sunrise, ready to confront the others.

The cannon makes my chest tighten, but I'm still ready as ever.

* * *

A day passes as I head up the top of the mountain, passing thousands of bamboo shoots along the way. The anthem showed that, besides the girl from Eleven, the boy from Eight died during the night.

It's just myself and roll left. Fists against club. Small against big.

I just have to find her first, hopefully before she finds me and takes me by surprise.

Sooner than I expected I make it to the peak and settle down to meditate once more, perhaps for the last time if I can't overcome Roll. Thoughts of family fill my head, enough to give me a sense of brief relief from the pain in my body, mind and soul.

Two hours pass before I hear footsteps drawing near.

It's her.

I'm up and ready in a moment, watching as Roll walks up the slope not far from me. Like me she's filthy and her clothes are caked in dried blood, but I see something else upon her too.

The twitches of madness.

As she gets closer I can see her eyes are unfocused, full of all sorts of pain and insanity I can't imagine. Or maybe I just don't want to?

"Rock, Rock, Rock... oh Rock..." I hear her mutter as she makes her way towards me.

I knew she and her twin were close, but I didn't think it was this close. Not to the point she'd have a breakdown if he died. Was it just him dying, or was it the fact he probably got torn apart by those mutts? Any thoughts I have of District Twos logic for sending in twins to the arena are put on hold when she spots me.

"You!" she shouts, her bloodied club gripped tightly.

"Me," I confirm, looking her over. The armour is easy to spot, thick and firm. I can only hope the gauntlets can break through it. But with her head exposed, perhaps that shan't be an issue.

I stand corrected very quickly as she puts on an armoured helmet and makes a run towards me. I'm in a fighting stance a moment after that, ready for what may come next.

This time though, she's ready for me as well. As much as she's lost it she doesn't allow me to narrow the gap, always keeping out of fist range and swinging the club around wildly. The rain falls hard as we keep up the fast, frantic duel at the mountain's peak with both of us looking for an out. Any way to harm our last opponent.

No sooner have I made her cry out in pain from a hard punch to her chest she sends me reeling back from a smack to the gut with the club. I'm lucky the spike wasn't facing towards me, but with the breath knocked right out of me it may not even matter.

"Just die already," she groans, rearing back for another swing.

She swings and I surge my hands forth, catching the club as it comes down. My arms burn as I push back against it and I'm sure Roll's own do as well. We struggle hard and fierce, trying to gain advantage.

I come out on top, sweep kicking her over. The club is sent flying away down the slope, but Roll had a back-up weapon all along. A nasty dagger. It's blood-soaked already, surely having taken a few lives prior to now.

The club had me wary, but the much smaller blade doesn't. By the time Roll has it raised I've already leapt forwards, landing my best ever flying kick right upon her chest. She falls backwards with a scream and in a moment she's begun to live up to her name.

She rolls down the mountain.

Down and down and down...

She's keeps rolling until she smashes right into a cluster of rocks far below. The cannon booms loud, thundering across the mountain.

It's like a switch has been flipped. My firm, stoic side is gone in a flash and I drop to my knees, blubbering. All the pain and stress since I was reaped comes out in a flash, my eyes left nearly aflame from how much the tears sting. I barely hear the trumpets, only continued to sob as the hovercraft descends to lift be aboard for the journey home.

Home.

I'm going home.

It's not long before I go under from something they inject into me, but I maintain enough clarity of mind to think before I completely pass out.

The Capitol watches Victors closely, Shunt said it himself. I'm unlikely to ever get any privacy again for as long as I'll live. But they can never find what I keep locked away in my mind.

Right now, the only thing on my mind is how sick and horrifying the arena was. How I can't, in good conscious, let it ever happen again to more innocent children.

Perhaps nothing can be done for the children next year, but what of the children in five years? Ten years? Fifty years? I'd be disgusted at myself if I didn't try to do something.

The last thing I remember thinking before it all goes dark is if Shunt may have rebellious ideas and, if not him, perhaps some of the others from the other Districts. Surely at least one among them wants to take these fiends down and leave them gasping for air...

* * *

"Ready to move on?" Peeta asked Katniss after their moment of silence for Isobel.

"Yeah, I'm ready," Katniss replied. "Still a lot of people to get through. Think any of the others were as powerful without weapons as Isobel was said to be?"

"Perhaps we'll remember as we keep going down the street," Peeta said. "I think, in their own way, all of the Victors were strong."

"Or, in Snag's case, just **very** lucky," Katniss said, as she led Peeta along.

The pair moved a few paces on and soon came to the next face imprinted upon the sidewalk. It showed a cocky looking young man with a well groomed appearance, his expression nothing short of arrogant.

"Bronze Marley," Katniss noted, reading the name below the face. "He sure seems full of himself."

* * *

That was a fun one to write, I'd say. Who couldn't like a badass karate girl who took on all four Careers at once? Presumably at least several people out there as I've yet to see a character literally everybody likes. But yeah, a Victor who excels in unarmed combat, the first Victor who hid her true skills from the Gamemakers in training and a bit of an inkling of rebellious thoughts as well. What may that lead to as the decades go by? Stay tuned and perhaps you'll find out!

* * *

 **Stats**

 **District 1:** Peridot Gaudy (8th Games), Crystal McCree (14th Games)

 **District 2:** Baron Overwhill (4th Games), Runa Peace (7th Games), Olga Machete (10th Games), Rook Valiant (17th Games)

 **District 3:** Honorius Perthshire (5th Games)

 **District 4:** Museida Selkirk (3rd Games), Mags Flanagan (11th Games)

 **District 5:** Shunt Gaspar (12th Games), Isobel Sparks (18th Games)

 **District 6:** N/A

 **District 7:** Pliny Aransio (2nd Games), Fir Buzz (9th Games)

 **District 8:** Woof Casino (16th Games)

 **District 9:** Mizar Aldjoy (1st Games), Gwenith Rosebud (13th Games)

 **District 10:** N/A

 **District 11:** Bear Redfoot (15th Game)

 **District 12:** Duke Saint-Rose (6th Games)


	20. Bronze Marley

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Hunger Games. They belong to Suzanne Collins.

 **Note:** Been a while since the last update, huh? What can I say? Life happens, what with emotions, job hunting, novel writing and the like. One could call me a 'stressedmite', heheh. Still, finally got time to get the next Victor done. If you like arrogant douchebags then this guy is the one for you! :D

* * *

"Seems like an arrogant sort of guy, judging by his face on the ground," Peeta said, crossing his arms. "Or am I being too judgemental?"

"Us humans are a judgemental bunch," Katniss replied, shrugging. "We're all a bit prejudiced when you get down to it."

"I guess you have a point," Peeta conceded. "You know, I'm surprised District One took this long to have their third Victor. They were always so dominate when we were growing up."

"I guess they had some false starts and teething pains before they become unbearable to go against," Katniss said with a shrug. "I guess Bronze only furthered their support for the Games and training up lethal kids."

"If nothing else he sure helped his home out a lot," Peeta said, wincing. "Not that it did our home much good."

* * *

 **19th Annual Hunger Games**

 **Name:** Bronze Marley

 **Gender:** Male

 **District:** 1

 **Age:** 16

 **Kills:** 7

* * *

Bronze Marley was a complete asshole.

Not every Victor in the history of Panem was a person who could be considered nice. Even those like Mizar and Pliny who only killed once, and those like Bentley who only caused accidental kills, were still marked down as murderers. But Bronze, even among other arrogant Careers, was a touch above the rest in his sheer capacity for being a douchebag.

Legend tells that he's the reason Peridot soundproofed her house and why nobody ever moved into the houses either side of his own within the District One Victor Village. He was just that much of a dick.

He was arrogant, he was cocky, he was smug, he revelled in showing his superiority in increasingly overblown and cruel ways, he cared nothing for those he saw as beneath him (everybody) and he was a shameless womaniser.

He didn't give a shit about any of this, just smugly claiming that everybody else was jealous of him. He'd never lost at anything before and, just a few months after his sixteenth birthday, decided that the Nineteenth Hunger Games would be no different.

Panem got their first true look at Bronze when he swaggered up to the stage, waving and posing for the crowd. He went so far as to take the mic and, completely ignoring his District Partner and how he'd stolen the spot of the boy the academy had chosen, vowed that he was going to win and the other tributes may as well kill themselves to save him some time.

"In two weeks tops I won't be 'Bronze', I'll be Gold," he said, a sly smirk adorned upon his face.

Crystal and Peridot, the two Victors District One had in those days, had glanced at each other and done rock-paper-scissors to decide who would have to mentor Bronze.

"Bugger!" Crystal swore, having done paper and Peridot done scissors.

"Oh thank goodness," Peridot muttered, shaking her head.

* * *

Things did not get any better on the tribute train. Indeed, while Peridot and the female tribute, Bliss, had retreated to the back carriage for some semblance of peace and quiet, Crystal found herself stuck with Bronze. By all accounts, her attempts at mentoring him were for naught.

"Get lost, I don't need any help," Bronze said, sneering. "I've got this in the bag. You didn't even win right, you literally died for a few minutes after they got you out. You say you saw some kind of paradise? What, did you see _teddy bears_ too?"

"Hey, I know what I saw," Crystal replied, defensive. "It was really nice and heavenly and-."

"Don't care, it's not about me," Bronze said, yawning and stretching out. "Get me some grapes, would you?"

In the end Bronze caused Crystal so much stress from his dickish behaviour that she had another heart attack and required the train staff to use the defibrillators on her. It was clear that Crystal wasn't going to be able to do much mentoring of any sort for a boy like Bronze.

She was more than fine with this, glad to be away from him and have free time to raid the cookie jar on the train.

* * *

The parade was typically the first place any tribute would be able to grab sponsors to keep themselves alive when the arena arrived, a time where many tributes would smile, wave and go absolutely all out in order to get whatever support they possibly could. Typically there was always a tribute or two that absolutely stole the show.

Bronze didn't steal the show. No, that would be too weak a term for what happened. He outright committed the robbery of the century with the parade.

From the moment the District One chariot was in view of the audience the other tributes had almost no chance. Bronze waved, blew kisses, fist pumped, humped the air, yelled support for the Capitol, told the citizens he loved them and promised a hot night with whoever sent him the best sponsor gift. He had the Capitol crowd in the absolute palm of his hand with hardly any effort required.

Even Orion, giving his brief yearly speech, couldn't help but feel the boy had a natural gift for performing. He was wasted in the Districts, but such was Panem.

It was only an entire hour after the parade had ended that Bronze ceased his robust, almost sensual, performance of showing off and excessive air humping. Crystal ended up needing the defibrillators once again.

* * *

Bronze showed off his skills with swords and maces flawlessly in the training centre. He breezed through everything that he attempted, making it look easy and never once passing up the chance to laugh at the weaker Outliers. It was one of those years where just about every Outlier was particularly feeble, no chance of shocking powerhouses like Isobel from the year prior.

"Ha, pathetic," Bronze laughed, pointing mockingly at the girl from Six as she fell off the climbing frame and broke her hand. "You taking my advice to kill yourself early? Smart choice."

The girl, having been resigned to her fate from the moment her name was drawn, went down as the first tribute to seriously piss Bronze off.

"If you're the best then why is your name Bronze? Doesn't that make you third best?" she choked out, wearily standing up.

Bronze began to snarl like a mutt, practically frothing at the mouth. It was a fact that he tended to fly off the handle and get into fits of rage if his superiority was questioned. Sure enough, while the girl from Six was led off to be checked over, Bronze destroyed a grand total of forty seven dummies and snapped over a dozen spears over his leg before he came halfway towards calming down.

Bliss and the pair from Two, Sextus and Vi, could only stare in shock and a bit of embarrassment at the severe tantrum their egomaniac ally was throwing while the Outliers were torn between fear and feeling awkward.

The Gamemakers merely sipped fine wine and made notes on what they were seeing. It was agreed that at bare minimum the boy deserved a nine for his impressive outburst.

Bronze would have been offended to hear this; he was going for a perfect twelve, dammit.

* * *

No tributes got any sleep on the night that the scores were announced. From the moment the show began it was all downhill. Bronze was awarded a nine and his screaming and shouting at this so-called 'blasphemy' went on for hours. Poor Bliss was unable to enjoy the fact she earned a nine too due to how Bronze's screaming fit outright intimidated her.

It only got worse when Sextus scored an eleven and Vi scored a ten. Being outshone by his allies has the arrogant boy howling in rage and spitting in hatred. How dare they, he kept yelling over and over. Even the fact most of the Outliers had pitiful scores didn't improve Bronze's mood in any significant way.

After all, the fact Ridge from District Twelve had been the only strong Outlier and had tied Bronze's score was nothing short of a personal offence to the boy from One.

Crystal ended up needing the defibrillators used on her _again_.

* * *

The interviews of the Nineteenth Hunger Games were a fairly mixed bag, full of highs and lows. Bronze went all out to ensure that he was seen as the absolute highlight of the show and it seemed that by all accounts he had succeeded. Everybody loved the boy from the family of silversmiths.

"Yeah, I stole the spot of the nobody that the academy selected," Bronze said, reclining in the chair beside Mortimer's own like he owned the place. "But I did him a favour really. I saved his life; he'd have just ended up like the other eighteen boys from One you've already seen die."

"How generous and kind of you," Mortimer remarked. "What makes you so sure that you're going to end up differently than those boys before you? Any secret skills or talents?"

"It's quite simple really," Bronze said, giving the audience a sly wink. "I'm _me_ and they weren't."

The crowd lapped it all up and seemed really disappointed when the buzzer went off, ending Bronze's interview. He swaggered off, making fingers gun to the crowd, knowing he was going to be the highlight of the night.

Of course, seeing the audience responding with cheers and approval to Sextus and Vi had him feeling angry all over again. Bronze was not a boy that liked to be outshone and he did not want anybody thinking that a single other person had anything over him. He was number one and felt as ready as he possibly could be to prove this to the nation.

He knew exactly how he was going to accomplish this.

* * *

Bronze showed no fear as he was launched into the arena alongside the other twenty three tributes. He just waved to the cameras, making a few seductive faces of sheer arrogance and cockiness. He received the bulk of the screentime as the countdown ticked closer towards zero.

The Gamemakers had gone a step beyond the tried and true forest terrain this year, instead settling upon a thick jungle. The place was vastly overgrown and incredibly humid from the moment the tributes were exposed to the jungle air. It was shaping up to be a year where dehydration deaths would be a very real possibility for those unable to secure water.

Bronze had no such worries, having been so confident and certain of Victory from the very start. What reason what there to worry about anything when he was so self assured of his skills.

He didn't bother to make a charge at the Cornucopia, instead choosing to strut his way into the fray. He just smiled and waved to the cameras, hardly phased by the screams of agony and despair that filled the air. Roland from Eight tried to tackle him, but Bronze merely had to punch him in the throat and, without pausing from waving at the cameras, stomped hard onto the poor boy's neck.

Not a single camera missed the crack.

By the time the dust settled Bronze took a grand bow for the crowd and, without turning around, smashed his mace upon the skull of the girl from Ten as she tried to sneak up on him with a knife. The kill was instantaneous.

"What a rush!" Bronze laughed, twirling his mace in his hand. "Fun, right guys?"

"You could say that," Vi replied, wiping her spiked whip clean of blood with a rag. "Only eight kills. Fucking weak."

"Hey, not my fault. I got two of those kills," Bronze said, shrugging. "And as you lot got one each that'd mean three Outliers killed too... geez, I thought they were hopeless."

"Actually, I got four kills," Sextus stated, pausing from his chugging of a water bottle. "I got four, you got two and the girls got one each."

Sextus turned away to check over the rack of spears, missing the truly murderous look in Bronze's eyes. He seethed, his mouth almost starting to froth.

"Second best... I'm _second_ best...?" Bronze grinded his teeth together, his left eye twitching.

"Oh come on, get over yourself," Bliss said with a shrug. "You're still alive, aren't you? That's the main thing. Last one standing is the one who is best, no matter who they are. I mean, Pliny won terribly but she was still the best that year."

"Oh, don't remind me," Sextus groaned, shaking his head. "That year was just embarrassing to watch at the academy. Olga told us any tribute of hers who does that gets kicked out of Two."

"Can she do that?" Bliss asked.

"Olga has a lot of power. People love her," Vi said with a shrug, bending over to reach into a crate. "Cool, gotta be like three dozen water bottles in here."

"Make sure those are protected," Sextus said, moving to look over the water. "It's humid as fuck, we need that water."

Bronze balled his fists until his knuckles were white. All he could focus on was how Sextus kept upstaging him and how he wasn't going to stand for it. Not for a single moment!

* * *

The Careers left Bliss as the guard, heading out through the jungle with Sextus leading the way. Naturally, having to follow the lead of another only made arrogant Bronze even more annoyed.

The humidity did not help with this. The Careers were sweating, going through their water supply quicker than they would have wanted to. Still, Bronze could see two upsides to the unpleasant jungle conditions.

The fact Sextus clearly hated it and how it allowed Bronze to show off his shirtless form. Bronze flexed, smirking knowingly over how the Capitol audience were sure to love it.

A cannon fired after five hours of hunting. They hadn't known it until the anthem, but the girl from Five had been the first to succumb to dehydration, having literally ran herself to death.

"Fifteen left," Vi noted. "We gonna keep going?"

"Obviously. I'm not letting anybody steal my kills," Bronze said, snorting. "Not even sundown yet."

It wasn't long after that when Vi declared she needed to stop to take a piss. While Vi left the area Bronze began to patrol around as Sextus paused to sip more water. Bronze glared at the tougher boy, hatred filling his eyes.

His hatred reached dangerous levels when Sextus casually punched the tree he was next to, knocking the girl from Three out of her hiding spot. One quick stab from Sextus' sword and little Beeper was dead.

"Five, not bad," Sextus remarked. "Fourteen left, Bronze, we're doing-URK!"

He got no further before Bronze, well and truly pissed off from the kill stealing and upstaging, sunk his dagger right into Sextus' neck. Sextus slumped over like a ragdoll, moaning horribly until his cannon fired a few seconds later. Bronze wasted no time in placing the blood-soaked dagger by Beeper's body.

Bronze smirked, winking for the cameras, and forced a look of rattled panic onto his face when Vi came running back not long after that. The girl from Two looked frantically at the sight, bewildered by what she was seeing.

"Explain!" she shrieked, hardly able to get the word out at all.

"That little runt jumped Sextus from the tree. I tried to get her off but by the time I killed her she'd already stabbed him in the neck," Bronze lied, shaking his head. "Such a damn waste. I'm sorry Vi, I wasn't fast enough... fuck."

"Well... he'd have had to die eventually," Vi said, moving to collect Sextus' belongings. "Only one Victor, and he was a threat. We all knew it."

"Can't say I disagree," Bronze said as he moved behind Vi. "Only one Victor."

One moment Vi was looking at Sextus' token – a family photo – and the next moment she slumped over, her skull smashed with one powerful swing from Bronze's mace. She let out a pitiful whimper as the grim reaper claimed her.

"And it won't be you, it'll be me," Bronze said, smirking widely from cheek to cheek. "Nothing personal. Just can't have anybody outshining me on my path from greatness to super greatness."

Bronze pilfered the bodies of all their food and water, soon moving on with a spring in his step and a cheerful whistle passing his lips. He felt more confident than ever that he had things in the bag.

* * *

Bronze returned to the Cornucopia at midday of day three. Two more cannons had fired by then, one from dehydration claiming the girl from Nine and the other from tough Ridge being torn apart by a fearsome bear mutt.

Bronze had a wide smirk on his face as he sauntered back to the Cornucopia, one he quickly wiped away when Bliss made her way over to him.

"Where were you? What happened?" she asked, looking a touch out of it from the isolation.

"Bear attack," Bronze let out his best sigh. "It happened so fast. One moment we're chasing after the girl from Three. Next moment Sextus kills her and gets jumped by a bear mutt. He was dead before I could do anything and by the time the battle was over Vi was dead too. I've been lost for days, trying to find my way back here."

Bronze made a show of kicking over a crate, muttering. He glanced back at Bliss, narrowing his eyes.

"Those bears are bad news," the braggart said. "Don't try and mess with them unless you're as awesome as I am."

"I guess I'll be fine then," Bliss said, rolling her eyes. "So, what are we gonna do? Still eight others out there and this jungle is pretty big. We gonna go hunt them down, or leave a guard... or what?"

"I say we load up on water and get hunting before they dehydrate. That'd just take away the fun and the glory," Bronze said, cheerfully laughing. "C'mon, grab your favourite blade and let's get going."

It wasn't long before the Ones were off, ready to get killing the Outliers who remained alive. Bliss didn't know she had mostly been told a load of bullshit, but Bronze had been honest about one thing.

The bear mutts were seriously dangerous and he didn't wish to confront them alone, not that he'd ever admit it.

* * *

During the early hours of the fifth night two tributes were eaten by a single, ravenous bear mutt. Bronze, meanwhile, had the foresight to ensure that Bliss and himself were securely in the trees and out of the reach of the fierce mutts.

"Not a terrible night," Bronze remarked. "Not so humid when the sun goes down."

"Still not what I'd call a nice place to hang out," Bliss replied, trying to get comfy.

"It's not meant to be, it's an arena," Bronze stated, rolling his eyes. He smirked, mischievous. "A place where there are many things lurking in the dark and none of them nice."

A scream of despair and horrible growling echoed from somewhere half a mile away, a cannon booming moments later. Bronze gestured in the direction of the kill site, indifferent.

"See? Nothing nice out there," said the arrogant prick.

"I guess you've made your point," Bliss replied. "So who is left now? I think the boy from Four is. Not sure who else."

"Hell if I know. To me they're all just lesser beings. Targets if you will," Bronze said, shrugging. "Not much to overthink; the Outliers this year were all worthless except what's-his-face from Twelve and he's already dead."

"I guess you're right," Bliss replied, trying to settle down. "How many do you think will still be alive by the time morning arrives?"

"Not many," Bronze said, a devilish smirk adorning his handsome face.

Bliss soon fell asleep, her District Partner volunteering for the first watch of the night. Bronze kept guard dutifully, keeping an eye out for any signs of danger or action. For a time there was nothing besides a gentle shower of rain, one that the jungle canopy mostly protected him and Bliss from being doused in.

A cannon boomed an hour later. Something in Bronze appeared to change when he quickly realised only six tributes were left in the arena. Without hesitation he moved closer to Bliss.

"Well, look at that, you won't be alive by morning either," Bronze whispered with a snicker. "Can't have anybody standing equal to me and taking away my kills and glory."

The mace came down with a particularly brutal smash and a moment later only five tributes remained alive in the arena.

* * *

With the death of Bliss a lot of the betting in the Capitol ground to a halt, many of the citizens seeing it as inevitable that Bronze would be the one walking out of the arena with his life. With Angus from Ten being a toothpick and both Flower from Seven and Wrenn from Eleven being particularly small and starving it meant that Seamarr from Four was the only other tribute who really had any sort of muscle to him.

That changed when a bear mutt tore his left arm off and sent him falling to his death in the mud at the bottom of a rocky cliff.

While Seamarr's life came to an abrupt end, Bronze was overall having the time of his life as he sauntered through the jungle. He waved to the crowd, posing against the jungle trees and flora to keep the audience excited, and worked to track down Flower before the sun came down on day six.

Bronze had no time to brag or rest, however, not when the Gamemakers sent a bear mutt after him as a way to at least try and ensure it wasn't going to be a completely obvious outcome this year.

"Whoa, watch the goods!" Bronze yelled, dodging the deadly claws of the snarling bears. "Wanna play rough? Ok, let's play rough!"

Bronze lunged at the bear, trying to strike it with ferocious swings of his mace. His swings made contact and sent blood flying, but failed to kill the powerful bear mutt. It only roared, furious and greatly pained. Bronze winced, starting to feel a sense of genuine fear for the first time in his spoiled life. He didn't pay attention to the cannon that marked the death of Wrenn – the small girl having been stabbed by lanky Angus – and instead turned to run for his life.

He ran right to a tree, running up the side of it and flipping backwards. It was sheer luck alone that allowed Bronze to land upon the back of the bear, right in the perfect place to ride it around, but he had no plans to admit this.

"All according to plan," Bronze declared. "Ok, where's the last-WHOA!"

The bear bucked, writhed and roared as it charged along, trying to throw Bronze off of itself. The Career boy held on for dear life, hardly able to wave to his adoring fans as he rode the aggressive mutt through the jungle. It was easily one of the top five most bizarre moments that had been seen in the Hunger Games thus far in those early days.

One moment Bronze was yelling in alarm as he was finally thrown off of the bear and send a good ten meters through the air from it.

The next moment he landed right in front of Angus. Instinct took over and Bronze smashed the skinny boy without mercy before he could even start to react.

Bronze was almost mad with laughter and triumph as the trumpets rang out, feelings of glory and arrogance filling his mind and soul. He danced around, kicking the body of Angus, showing off and making sure to mock the losers who hadn't been able to match his formidable skills.

District One was mainly just glad to have another Victor and didn't mind Bronze's ego, content to cheer along and enjoy the day.

District Two were sore in defeat and vowed to do better next year, Olga making a special note to tell her tributes to never ever turn their backs upon their allies from District One.

Districts Three right down to Twelve felt something bubbling up within them as Bronze kicked and spat on the corpse of Angus, fist pumping and laughing like a madman.

 _ **Hatred**_.

* * *

Bronze danced smugly at the after-party of the Games, more than happy to sign autographs or pose for photos with starstruck Capitolites. He felt like he was king of the world and was ready to reap the rewards of being a Victor for his entire life.

Peridot and Crystal stood off to the side, nowhere near as happy about this outcome as Bronze was.

"Well, this sucks," Crystal huffed, pouting. "Do we have to hang out with him back in One? I'd rather not; I've needed the dang defibrillators sixteen times these Games."

"I'm certainly not going to," Peridot said, crossing her arms. "In fact, I'm going to read comic books and pretend this braggart never won. Farewell."

Peridot made a beeline for the exit. Crystal did not stick around either, feeling her time was better spent away from Bronze and up in the room she shared with Harp. Bronze would have to enjoy the party alone and, by the looks of things, had no issues in doing so.

When Bronze eventually took his leave from the party alongside two pretty purple haired twins, all three with sly intent for the night, he was watched in disgust by Isobel. She shook her head at the sight, standing beside Shunt.

"Disgraceful. He actually loved this experience," Isobel gripped her glass tightly, almost making it form a crack. "You saw that boy kicking up Angus' corpse. Disgusting."

"Sure is," Shunt agreed, adjusting his fedora. "But we're stuck with him now."

"We may not be able to control that, but we can control how we respond to him," Isobel tapped her chin, thoughtful. "...You sure you're not interested in forming a bit of a Victor rebellion?"

"Like I said, show me ten interested members and then I'll get on board," Shunt said, flinching. "I'd rather not embark on a suicide quest. I was lucky to emerge as the sole knight standing once. A second time... it's a risk."

"Doing the right thing is always a risk," Isobel replied, not pushing it. "Fine then."

Isobel glanced around the massive party room as she wandered to and fro. Most of the Victors were busy, whether it was talking to Capitol officials like Olga and Rook or sitting off to the side in a state of pain and resignation like Bear.

It was only when she stepped onto the balcony for a few minutes of peace that she finally found any sort of luck.

"I heard what you said to Shunt," Mizar whispered, near silently. "I'm in. I'm sure Gwenith would agree; it's time to start doing something."

Isobel smirked, shaking hands with the man from District Nine. The Districts were not totally fucked just yet...

* * *

"Only nineteen years and the death toll... it's horrible to think about," Peeta said, a hand over his face.

"It only gets worse," Katniss replied. "Is Bronze still alive? I can't help thinking that his name ring a bell... maybe..."

"...I think he got burnt at the stake by rebels," Peeta said, lightly.

Neither of the couple said anything else, only keeping a silence for the burnt braggart. They soon moved further down the sidewalk and reached the next face.

"The end of the second decade. Twenty years of this. Makes you wonder how hopeless people felt," Peeta said, looking down at the ground.

"I don't have to wonder too hard. People were just as hopeless a few years ago," Katniss stated, glum. "Hmmm, wonder what Boulder Atherston did in the arena."

The imprinted face that looked back up at them, one with fairly tidy hair, patient eyes and a short goatee, naturally gave them no answers.

* * *

That was Bronze, the most arrogant bastard the Hunger Games have ever seen! Or, well, maybe just one of the top five? I guess time shall tell! Not every Victor is gonna be super complex and full of backstory. Some, like Bronze, are just kind of truly arrogant pricks. On the other hand, I feel like Bronze's level of ego made for a rather entertaining villain. I feel there's a certain line that, when crossed, makes a character go from detestably arrogant to being hilariously egotistical and I think Bronze crossed that line? I guess I'll let you guys decide if he's good or not. Either way, almost done with the second decade of the Games and the first Quell draws ever nearer...

* * *

 **Stats**

 **District 1:** Peridot Gaudy (8th Games), Crystal McCree (14th Games), Bronze Marley (19th Games)

 **District 2:** Baron Overwhill (4th Games), Runa Peace (7th Games), Olga Machete (10th Games), Rook Valiant (17th Games)

 **District 3:** Honorius Perthshire (5th Games)

 **District 4:** Museida Selkirk (3rd Games), Mags Flanagan (11th Games)

 **District 5:** Shunt Gaspar (12th Games), Isobel Sparks (18th Games)

 **District 6:** N/A

 **District 7:** Pliny Aransio (2nd Games), Fir Buzz (9th Games)

 **District 8:** Woof Casino (16th Games)

 **District 9:** Mizar Aldjoy (1st Games), Gwenith Rosebud (13th Games)

 **District 10:** N/A

 **District 11:** Bear Redfoot (15th Game)

 **District 12:** Duke Saint-Rose (6th Games)


	21. Boulder Atherston

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Hunger Games. They belong to Suzanne Collins.

 **Note:** Time to round out the second decade of the morbid, gruesome Hunger Games. I'd say so far the story and the start of underlying plots have been going well, perhaps better than I had expected in all honesty. I guess the question now is, which decade of Games has been better? The first or the second? Feel free to let me know, I'd love to hear what you all think. Until then, time for more bloodshed!

* * *

Katniss and Peeta looked over the face of the Victor at their feet,as if sizing him up.

"Another Career," Katniss noted. "Twenty years of Hunger Games and Two won a quarter of them. When did all of the Districts have a Victor again?"

"I can't remember when Ten had their first," Peeta replied, uncertain. "But I know that Six was last. I think it was the thirty first... the one with 'the kick'."

"Gale rather liked that one," Katniss said, faintly snickering. "Know anything about Boulder? He looks about as strong, big and formidable as his name implies. Typical Career."

"I saw a postcard with him on it once. He... isn't the kind of Victor one would forget quite so easily, even amongst other Careers," Peeta said, looking over Boulder's stats.

"Why is that?" Katniss asked, curious.

"He had dwarfism," Peeta explained. "He stood at three feet and four inches, so they say."

* * *

 **20** **th** **Annual Hunger Games**

 **Name:** Boulder Atherston

 **Gender:** Male

 **District:** 2

 **Age:** 18

 **Kills:** 4

* * *

In District One he is laughed at.

The citizens of One see off their tributes for the year – two truly beautiful murderers by the names of Ring and Emerald – with smiles and applause. If ever there was a year for back to back victories it is this one. With Bronze on the mentoring team (and as arrogant, cruel and skilled as he was a year ago) the odds look to be in their favour once again.

It all comes down to the other tributes, especially those from District Two. The Ones are loathe to admit to the facts as they stand, but District Two are without question the most powerful District when it comes to the Hunger Games. They boast the most Victors after all.

But, upon seeing the reaping recaps that night, the people of District One laugh and laugh, thinking their neighbours in Two must have been overdosed on morphling when the tributes were chosen. The girl who volunteers, Xarrax, is certainly formidable and clear to be the biggest threat to One this time around.

But when the male volunteers and mounts the stage there is only mocking laughter, candid insults and scathing pointing made in response.

The boy stands only a little over three feet tall and his steely confidence that he is ready for anything that may come only serves to increase the mockery.

"I'm sure right now the people of One are laughing at me. Maybe the other Districts are too," the boy says as the escort passes him the mic for a moment. "I'd just like to tell them that big power can come in a small package and I'll be the one laughing once I'm on my Victory Tour. Let's go."

The Ones do not take him with any amount of seriousness. Aside the obvious fact that Boulder is more of a 'pebble' to put it ever so bluntly, they claim he looks too casual, too friendly, too approachable to stand much of a chance. Even a few of the Outliers seem like they might be able to throw him around like a basketball of some kind.

They promptly stop laughing over a week later when Boulder shoulder bashes Emerald off a cliff to the whirling waters below without breaking a sweat.

* * *

In District Three he's met with sighs of relief.

The citizens back in the Technology District, all downtrodden and hopeless, are not the sort to expect a Victor any time soon. Perhaps never. They're the rational sort who see the facts, good or bad, and resign themselves accordingly. With only one Victor who barely defeated his last opponent in an era before the yearly pack of at least four killers, they don't have much hope to hold out for a victor to occur in this particular year.

The unlucky tributes on the train that year, short Orbit and asthmatic Coder, feel their tears starting up all over again once the reaping recap footage shows off the good looking killers from One. Honorius, no longer arrogant and mainly just dismayed most days, finds it hard to think of this as anything besides a year of defeat in the making. The only one who ever got close was suicidal Socket and she intended to die all along.

But when they see that the boy from Two is so small this year, even smaller than Orbit, he begins to

wonder if fate may have granted him a small boon.

"He doesn't look so tough," Coder hesitantly says after watching her past self wailing on the reaping stage.

"He's even smaller than I am," Orbit remarks.

"That's a good thing," Honorius says, pouring out coffee for himself and his tributes. "Your odds don't just come down to your own skills but also what the rest of the playing field can do. At a glance, he doesn't seem so tough at all. Don't be fools and assume him as an easy kill... but we can all agree he's got nothing on Sextus last year."

The recaps pass by, but the tributes from Three can't help keeping in mind how this year's boy from Two is so small and nothing like the burly brutes of years gone by. He's even smaller than the tiny boy from the First Games unlucky enough to be reaped before Careers existed.

They agree that it may be worth it to try and gang up on him to kill him off last. Slaying a Two would impress the sponsors, they reason, and being from one of the weakest Districts they need all the support that they can get.

The pair ally and become fast friends, thinking that they may just have a chance after all in this brutal contest they've been forced into.

The relief ends and grim reality sets in for the pair and for Honorius when Boulder easily throws Orbit off of himself and stabs Coder to a quick, clean death twenty seconds into the Games.

* * *

In District Four he is ignored.

Four isn't the kind of place that pays much attention to tributes from other Districts. With their own tributes generally lasting a long time there's rarely any reason to do so. This counts most of all for the parade where the other tributes hardly even exist in the eyes of the sailors and swimmers from the Fishing District.

It's not a bad parade for Four this year, their boy Titanic and their girl Ariel being dressed up like a God and Goddess of the sea, and the Capitol citizens all agree that Four is quite the hit at this early event. Hope and a sense of District Pride is felt by all those living across Four.

While their attention remains mostly with Titanic and Ariel, it doesn't do any harm to briefly glance at the competition this year. The District has to stop and pause for a moment, wondering briefly why only one person is standing in the District Two chariot this year.

It takes a few moments before they see the tip of the Two boy's head poking over the front of the chariot, almost completely out of sight. His viking helmet is deemed as more notably than what little of him they can see.

The parade comes to an end with the tributes being taken into the tribute building, the Capitolites cheering as they go and chattering excitedly over the death looming in the days ahead. They and the people of Four all agree that Boulder gave one of the weakest showings out of all twenty boys from Two who have entered the Hunger Games thus far. Even the girl from Six who walks on crutches was more of a standout.

With both of the tributes from Four allowed into the pack this year the Capitol and Four think Boulder will be very much an afterthought. Easily the first of the pack to die.

They're both stunned into a complete and utter silence when the trumpets sound twelve days into the Games with Boulder as the last one standing, panting in exhaustion as Titanic lays dead with his head crushed.

The clever runt allowed the others to overshadow him and wear themselves out long before the finale.

* * *

In District Five he is tolerated.

The interviews always go in District order, boy before girl, so it will be a while before the Fives get to see how their own tributes, a smart pair of power plant workers, are holding up after several days since they left the somewhat safe-ish borders of their home District.

It's as ugly of an affair as can be expected. Emerald talks about her love of knives and exactly how she plans to show it, Ring proves to be a master of making all kinds of horrible leers for the camera (Bronze taught him well) and Xarrax leaves several youths and even a few adults pissing their pants from sheer terror of her beastly power.

In contrast Boulder is actually rather friendly and chill in his own interview. He shakes Mortimer's hand, talks in an relaxed and composed way and never once tries to act like a brute or a sociopath in the making.

Instead he talks about life in the academy and how he handled it.

"What you've got to understand is that coming from the quarries automatically makes you a person of a lower standing than somebody like Xarrax, who came from a family of soldiers if I recall things correctly," he says, crossing his legs. "Being short like I am, I'm probably the least popular person at the academy."

"But they still chose you to volunteer this time around," Mortimer notes. "How come?"

"Because I was the best man for the job," Boulder replies, giving a short nod. "On the one hand, yes, I'm short and people like to play 'midget tossing' with me against my will. On the other hand I scored a ten and I know how to read people. I'm confident."

"The rest seem to think that they're better than you," Mortimer says with a rather nasty smirk. He was never one to like 'broken people', one could say. "What if they are right?"

"The Games haven't started yet," Boulder says, smiling almost pleasantly. "If they kill me, they're better. If I kill them, then I'm better. But to be honest, it's not about kill count; it's about being the last one. A marathon, not a sprint. Anyway, enough about that, to my count I have about a minute left and I'd like to talk about Baron. A truly great Mentor with unwavering faith in me. I'm grateful for his help."

His humble nature and desire to beat the odds reminded the Fives of themselves, in a technical sort of way. They weren't proud folk and wanted to beat the odds set by the Capitol, so out of the strong pack this year they found Boulder the one least worthy of hating.

Too bad it was clear that he was going to end up dead by the time the days ended. As unlikely as a win for District Five was, a win for Boulder seemed hard to comprehend. Especially with Xarrax being so formidable.

They could only gasp in absolute shock when, driven by terror and the most agonising of desperation, seven of the Outliers charged Xarrax in one go and tackled her down, knives in hand. By the time her allies moved in the girl had already been gruesomely stabbed to death.

Boulder looked unsure how to feel, torn between some pity for his District Partner and relief that his most dangerous opponent has fallen.

* * *

In District Six he is one of many.

The people of Six have no hope for getting a Victor any time soon. Maybe they never will. After Chev's defiance that monstrous girl from Two has made sure to have her beasts kill the Six tributes year after year in the opening seconds. They never stand a chance and on the one occasion one of them got out of the starting area in the tomb arena she just died to a trap in under five minutes.

They have no reason to care and every reason to feel hopeless. They care about the boy from District Two about as much as they care for the tall girl from Eleven. Not even a bit. Their tributes died in the bloodbath as usual, so what reason do they have to continue caring about the outcome? Even during mandatory viewing they don't show any emotion.

They just watch, all but the wailing families of the dead unaffected, as the bloodbath comes to its grisly close and the cameras give some great shots of the arena this year. It's a barren, rocky island surrounded by a stormy sea with thunderclouds up in the sky. Rains falls as soon as the cannons finish firing, the water helping the blood spread around the rocky ground faster.

It doesn't matter to the poor citizens of District Six what the arena terrain is. It certainly doesn't matter that Boulder wisely suggests his alliance tie some of the supplies down in case the looming storm becomes severe, only to be ignored.

Their tributes are already dead, their corpses being taken from the arena by the hovercraft. This arena has already become pointless to them.

* * *

In District Seven he is despised.

It's the third day when their only tribute, a fifteen year old by the name of Autumn, is found by the Careers deep in the caves that run through the rocky island. The District watches, paralysed in fear for the poor girl, as she hides behind a pile of rubble with her face turning blue from how much she is holding her breath. The pack seem to pass by, not noticing any trace of her as they progress deeper into the caves.

Autumn flees the area as fast as she possibly can, wasting no time in putting distance between herself and the Career pack. Her District cheers her on, thinking for a few wonderful moments that she might be able to evade the pack and flee somewhere else or, better yet, block the entrance to trap the Careers inside the cave.

But instead she falls down dead, killed instantly by a throwing knife to the heart from the short boy from Two, who had been left behind by his aloof allies. He doesn't spare a single glance at the fallen girl as he progresses deeper into the cave, calling out impatiently for his alliance to come back.

As another family breaks down in grief, soon told to shut up by the Peacekeepers, the people of Seven find themselves only able to view the small boy with hatred and wish death upon him for what he just did. Surely a whelp like him is inevitably going to die sooner or later, especially with the storm getting worse and worse.

They don't get their wish, instead being forced to watch as Boulder survives being blown around by the merciless storm that erupts later that day and surviving a lethal drop down a cliff by clutching onto the cliff face for over three hours.

When he leaves the arena, Seven as a whole make plans to throw rotten vegetables and some chunks of tree bark at him on his victory tour. Plans that go off without a hitch.

* * *

In District Eight he is the source of comedy.

Every Hunger Games has a moment that tends to be most remembered. The bloodbath of the First, the release of the mutts in the fifth, Crystal outrunning the boulder in the Fourteenth and so on.

For the Twentieth, the thing that has Eight howling with laughter is when the massive boy from Eleven grabs hold of Boulder when he is separated from the pack after the initial outburst from the storm and drop kicks him like a football.

The tiny boy soars over eight meter through the air until he comes to a landing in a crumpled heap, moaning in pain.

It's not much, but it does serve as a distraction from the deaths of their own pair this year. If they cannot win, then at least they can get some of the agony out by laughing at the freaks who trained up for this blood sport.

They remain laughing months later when Boulder passes through District Eight on his Victory Tour, asking if he came down with snow on him and making plenty of kick related puns.

* * *

In District Nine he is appreciated.

No Career would ally with somebody from Nine. Not at this point in the Hunger Games, and Boulder is no exception to that. He has his place in the pack, his stealth and keen ability to scavenge for scraps to feed them all keeping him from being dropped out of what remains of the pack on the eighth day – himself, Titantic, Ring and Emerald.

All the same, he's at the bottom of the pack and he's just as aware of it as the audience are. The question is, what will he do about it? Will he do a thing before it's too late?

He's no real factor to the Ninth District of Panem, whose attention is better spent on their chameleon of a boy. An expert hider and a natural with a bow and arrow.

A boy who is starting to slip up on his stealth due to hunger and fear. It's desperation that leads him to take a shot at the Careers in hopes of getting a sponsor to maybe send him a steak or even some crackers.

Boulder hears the whistle of the arrow and knows it's coming before it skewers through Ring's neck. While Titanic and Emerald panic and start shouting, he also knows exactly where Judd is hiding.

He gives him a wink and discreetly gestures for him to run. The boy does exactly that, giving Boulder a brief nod.

Just like that Boulder's spot in the pack is just a bit more secure, both of his comparatively bigger allies wanting him on their side against the other and District Nine feels immensely grateful he didn't rat out their remaining tribute. A classy show of mercy and some sense of honour.

When Judd is killed two days later, it's not from Boulder. The District of Grain has no reason to hate him more than any other tribute, so they don't.

Their two Victors don't either. They're too busy secretly plotting rebellious ideas and working out who is safe to include to this dangerous idea.

* * *

In District Ten he is given some very begrudging respect.

The Tens grow more bitter and grim with every year that passes with no Victor and two more corpses for the Tribute Graveyard. They have come close before, only for a better armed tribute to take it away or simple bad luck taking the life of their would-be Victor.

All the same, they have to admit the little ankle biter from Two has serious guts to be able to wrestle with a big crab mutt and walk around without any sign of bleeding.

* * *

In Eleven he is a surprise neither welcome nor unwelcome.

It comes down to Boulder and Titanic, the pair meeting mere hours after Titanic dispatched Acorn from Eleven. The boy limps, but still stands taller and stronger than Boulder does.

The second drop kick Boulder is put through only further proves this.

It's David VS Goliath as the pair struggle and scrap amidst the nasty and violent storm that hits the barren island. Both battle hard and viciously, not going up for a moment in spite of the pain. Boulder suffers a nasty cut across his leg. Titanic receives a grisly stab to his hip. Both have their noses broken.

"You're tougher than I thought," Titanic pants, gripping his sword. "But you're tiny. You lack any kind of size! No... muscle...!"

"I don't... need any..." Boulder wheezes, swaying on his feet for a moment. "I have the only muscle I need... my brain..."

"Is a brain... even a muscle...?" Titanic asks, gasping for air before he staggers closer to Boulder.

"Doesn't matter," Boulder says, expertly throwing a rock above where Titanic is standing.

Rocks cascade downwards, knocked loose from the impact, and in moments Titanic dies as his head is crushed under the debris. It's as quick as it is gruesome.

It was hardly the outcome Eleven had been resigned to, and based on Boulder's weak chuckles and commentary about how he knows the academy must be shocked, it wasn't what Two had expected either.

Eleven ends up not caring. Whether this boy was a sadist or a gentlemen, the fact is he trained for this murder game, willingly entered and won't earn any love from the Agriculture District.

* * *

In Twelve he is envied.

Not because of the fact he proved a lot of people wrong who claimed his size made him feeble. Not because he looks set to be a popular Victor. Not because he is going to be living the life of wealth and glory, one he intends to share with the friends he grew up with in the quarry mines, and not because his Victory means that Two has won a quarter of the Hunger Games so far.

No, they're jealous because he's alive and the two starving little kids the Capitol kidnapped from their homes this year are dead, having suffered highly painful deaths. The boy at the business end of Ariel's trident and the latter because of an aggressive crab mutt.

Everybody clears out the instant that mandatory viewing is over, hoping the next year won't come around too quickly. Why hope for it to be a lucky year when it's clearly not going to be anything but more deaths and grieving families?

Even the fact Boulder grew up poor and has an awareness, in some way, of what life in the Mining District is like doesn't mean a Games damned thing.

* * *

In the Capitol he is swarmed.

Everybody wants to meet the newest Victor and Boulder doesn't get a moment of peace. Seeing the crowds has Rook quick to flee the area and leave the newest Victor to his fate, only Baron preventing the Capitolites from accidentality trampling on Boulder in their hype.

It all leaves Boulder dizzy and overwhelmed. Baron does his best to keep his Victor from being swamped by too many at once, but Olga makes sure to keep people going over.

She's quick to point out how, unlike Rook, Boulder is a good and proper Two Victor with full Capitol loyalty and knowledge of the rules along with a willingness to follow them. It seems Two is only going to get more power and favour by the next year.

Perhaps enough for her to start making the move to replace Mr Overwhill within the next few years. The bitter man was always somebody she'd privately admit pissed her off with how entitled he was.

All the hustle and bustle over District Two and their status as the 'best District' makes everybody miss the Victors from Nine shake hands with Isobel and both Honorius and Duke doing the same.

A decade has come and gone, and factions are ever so slightly starting to slowly emerge...

* * *

In District Two he is accepted.

He won the Games and he won them the way the District feels they should be played. Strength and without any sort of fear or giving up. He proved wrong everybody who spoke against him and so the height jokes go away. They are not the sort of District to argue against what is obvious.

Boulder waves to the crowds with a humble smile, taking his homecoming with stride and a sense of satisfaction. He achieved what he wanted and intends to keep the mentoring team strong for years to come. After all, plenty of quarry workers out there need to be given a chance to succeed in life, and if the only way to do so is to win the Hunger Games like he did then he'll do his best to mentor them through it all.

He relaxes amongst his quarry rat friends on the porch of his house in the Victor Village, all with a fine beer in hand as they toast to Boulder's victory and to their grand District as a whole. One or two of his pals even playfully toast to Boulder being a human football, a jest he chuckles and admits to have had coming. He did, after all, kill a few tributes.

As Baron proposes to Runa on the porch of the house two doors down from his own his friends break out into wild applause for the Victor couple, surely to become the most talked about celebrity marriage since forever, while Boulder heads back inside.

What's a proposal celebration without some fine champagne?

He mutters a rather foul curse when it turns out the Peacekeeper who delivered the goods put the champagne out of his reach.

* * *

Boulder feels many, many things about himself when all is said and done. But if he was told to pick just one word to describe his journey then he'd have to go with 'accomplished'.

* * *

"Honestly...the idea of a small young man like him representing District Two just... what..." Katniss trailed off, more confused than anything else. "I'm more used to them being like Cato. Tall, monstrous and scary to look at. Always five foot eleven at least."

"Well it was the second decade of the Hunger Games, soon to be the third. Things were quite a bit different back then," Peeta said, keeping a moment of silence for Boulder. "Shall we keep moving?"

"May as well," Katniss said with a short nod. "Let's begin the next decade of this depravity."

The pair moved a few paces down the street, soon coming to the next Victor of many upon the sidewalk. A boy with a fairly cheeky expression looked back at them, his hair put into a wild ponytail and a scar or two marking his left cheek.

"Jack Tylos," Katniss said, reading the name under the face. "He seems cheerful."

"I'm sure his time in the arena was the opposite," Peeta said, quietly.

* * *

Not all Careers fit the mould. If anything, I love to break the mould and in this case I figured that going against the typical 'burly brute who may or may not be on steroids' appearance of D2 Males would be a good idea. Thus, we have Boulder, a Career with Dwarfism which honestly I've never seen as a combination before. I hope that he ends up as another decently well received Career Victor, but I'll let you sll be judge, jury and executioner per the norm. Any thoughts on the human football? Haha, well anyway, two decades down and still plenty of Victors left to go. Stay tuned for more!

* * *

 **Stats**

 **District 1:** Peridot Gaudy (8th Games), Crystal McCree (14th Games), Bronze Marley (19th Games)

 **District 2:** Baron Overwhill (4th Games), Runa Peace (7th Games), Olga Machete (10th Games), Rook Valiant (17th Games), Boulder Atherston (20th Games)

 **District 3:** Honorius Perthshire (5th Games)

 **District 4:** Museida Selkirk (3rd Games), Mags Flanagan (11th Games)

 **District 5:** Shunt Gaspar (12th Games), Isobel Sparks (18th Games)

 **District 6:** N/A

 **District 7:** Pliny Aransio (2nd Games), Fir Buzz (9th Games)

 **District 8:** Woof Casino (16th Games)

 **District 9:** Mizar Aldjoy (1st Games), Gwenith Rosebud (13th Games)

 **District 10:** N/A

 **District 11:** Bear Redfoot (15th Game)

 **District 12:** Duke Saint-Rose (6th Games)


	22. Jack Tylos

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Hunger Games, They belong to Suzanne Collins.

 **Note:** Here we are, the start of the third decade of the grisly Hunger Games. What drama and pain may unfold as we start to approach the first Quarter Quell in the next few chapters? In a word... lots. Lots will. Time to kick things off by exploring a fun little question I had enter my mind: what if tributes smuggled in an item or two into the arena that they really, really should not have any access too? Let's find out the answer. :P

* * *

"I don't think I've ever heard much talk of Jack," Katniss said, running a hand across her braid. "Seems like nobody from the old government liked to bring him up. Did Johanna ever talk about him?"

"Never to me," Peeta said, shrugging. "Either he rebelled or he just wasn't popular. Some Victors never end up being particularly loved... of course, given what happens to popular Victors is that really such a bad thing?"

"I can't say it is," Katniss admitted. "Poor Finnick..."

The couple were silent after that, paying some respect to Jack and idly wondering what happened in his arena several decades prior.

Neither knew of how he pulled the ultimate theft committed in the Hunger Games.

* * *

 **21st Annual Hunger Games**

 **Name:** Jack Tylos

 **Gender:** Male

 **District:** 7

 **Age:** 15

 **Kills:** 2

* * *

Not every reaping that was held in Panem truly came down to the odds not being in somebody's favour. Sometimes if a group were being particularly troublesome for Orion he would arrange for the reaping bowl to only contain names of those he wanted dead – and, in doing so, those not on his shit list were unknowingly spared for a year – or for somebody to Volunteer lest they end up on the wrong side of a Peacekeeper's rifle.

It wasn't done often, of course, as if too many reapings were fixed then the terror of being chosen to enter the arena would lessen and so would the man's stranglehold on the nation of Panem. But every so often something happened that meant a message needed to be sent and sent _**hard**_.

A hard riggage meant the certain, painful death of whoever got rigged into the arena.

A soft riggage meant they'd have the same odds as the rest when the gong rang. In most cases, this meant terrible odds and ending up dead regardless.

Jack's actions the day prior to the reaping for the Twenty First Annual Hunger Games gave him an express pass to enter the Games due to a soft riggage, of sorts. It was all downhill from that moment on.

Both for Jack _and_ the Capitol.

* * *

Jack would be the first to say that finding cash and surviving in District Seven wasn't really hard, all in all. It just came down to waiting for that golden opportunity. People being distracted from their cash registers in a store, a fallen purse, a valuable bracelet being worn far too loosely in a crowded space. As he would say, finding cash was easy.

But there are some golden opportunities best not taken. But you try telling a boy on the streets to not break the law to avoid starvation and suffering and see how far you get. Exactly, it's just not something that the poor and desperate would pass up.

And for Jack, a regular street urchin with quite the knack for picking pockets unseen, the wallet of the Head Peacekeeper of District Seven was simply too good a chance to pass up.

He'd not eaten in over a day so he wasn't really in the mood for thinking clearly, only the mood for buying tasty bread. One moment he was reaching carefully behind the Head Peacekeeper and took hold of the wallet with his sticky thief fingers.

The next moment he was grabbed in a crushing hold by the man and put under an instant arrest, caught for the first time. Jack had been so hungry he'd not noticed that Captain Mogrosh had been looking over a stall of mirrors and seen him coming.

One look into the vile man's eyes and Jack knew that he was truly in for it. He expected execution and planned to keep his head held high, refusing to beg.

He got something fairly different.

* * *

The night was spent in a grotty, tiny prison cell that smelt distinctly of piss, cyanide and mustard. A smell that could kill in strong enough doses. Jack sat on the small bed, listening to Captain Mogrosh laying out the conditions for him. The man was smug, amused even, but made sure sure to show nothing but coldness to the thieving youth.

"Normally you'd be hanged or shot for this," said the Captain, pacing to and fro. "That remains as option one, and you get to choose your death. But, considering what day is tomorrow, a second option has opened up for you."

"And what's that?" Jack asked, unable to look the man in the eye.

"Volunteer for the Hunger Games," Captain Mogrosh said, plain and simple. "One out of twenty four chance to live if you do. If you don't, I drag you to an alley and shoot you after the reaping. Your choice."

"...Just one question, ready for Seven to have its first male Victor?" Jack asked, giving a cheeky wink.

"Don't test me. I can't harm a tribute, but between now and then I can break both your arms," Captain Mogrosh said. "Sleep tight, brat."

The Head Peacekeeper left soon after that, leaving Jack all alone in the dark. But Jack wasn't scared of the fate that patiently awaited him the next morning.

Rather, he felt a strange buzz of excitement. In the arena he could steal anything he wanted and surely there would be plenty of things he could pilfer in the Capitol between the train ride and the start of the countdown.

As sleep claimed him Jack couldn't hold back the occasional giggle, several plans starting to form within his rather mischievous mind.

* * *

As Jack stood amongst the crowd of other fifteen year old boys he couldn't help but wonder if his name would be picked anyway and spare all the drama. His name had gone in twice when he was twelve and had been going up ever since until it had reached the eight slips that he currently had in the glass reaping bowl.

But then again, one look towards where Captain Mogrosh and his most loyal men stood with loaded rifles told him it didn't matter. He's gotten careless and was going into the Hunger Games either way.

The reaping was delayed in its official start due to the Escort of the year tripping and breaking a nail. While time passed, a replacement nail being fitting in, Jack noticed that several of the boys around him were shaking and starting to cry from sheer terror. The thief shrugged, figuring being honest wouldn't hurt.

As Captain Mogrosh had been ever so kind to tell him, once Jack was a tribute he could do nothing to punish him.

"Relax guys," Jack said to the other, significantly less homeless boys. "I'm volunteering, you have nothing to worry about."

His only response was several stares, torn between doubt and sheer bewilderment.

"I mean, I don't want to but Captain Mogrosh says he'll shoot me if I don't. Moral here is that it's unwise to pilfer his purse," Jack said, giving a cheerfully awkward sort of shrug. "So, yeah."

The boys seemed like they wanted to believe him, but common sense held them back. Since then did any sane person in Seven volunteer for the Hunger Games? Jack didn't seem insane, so it was hard for them to take him at face value.

It soon became clear that Jack was not all talk as, after a muscular lumberjill by the name of Helanai was reaped, Jack volunteered before the Escort could even get a word out.

"I understand you're excited," the man dressed as a peacock said. "But I do need to pull a name out first."

"I'm kind of in a hurry, man," Jack said, letting out an apologetic chuckle. "Just that if I don't do this our Head Peacekeeper said he'd kill me."

Captain Mogrosh's eyes widened, but before he could say a word the Escort called out a name. One that was never known due to how Jack repeated his commitment to volunteer and mounted the stage. As he and Helanai shook hands as was custom the thief met eyes with the Head Peacekeeper.

He gave a cheeky, practically devilish wink.

The Games had begun.

* * *

"So, how do we survive this?" Helanai asked over dinner.

Pliny mumbled something about finding water as she napped with her head on the table. Meanwhile Fir, considerably more awake than her fellow Mentor, gave the pair a smile.

"Keep smiling. Happy tributes get more Sponsors," she explained. "Oh, and puns help as well."

Before long Helanai had left to watch the reaping recaps, feeling that the famously sleepy Victor of the Second Games and the infamously immature Victor of the Ninth Games were not going to be able to help her much. They hadn't been able to help any of the tributes from Olga's year onwards, after all.

Jack, meanwhile, had hit things off quite well with the two Mentors. Pliny yawned, making her yearly suggestion to try and work something out with the tributes from Twelve and that playing defensively was a good plan in the early days. Fir, meanwhile, spoke of being fun and interesting to stay popular and not get picked on by the Gamemakers.

"You never know, the Games may reeeeeeeeally drag on like mine did and by then the Capitol will be begging for any puns, no matter how bad," she remarked, chomping on some fine bread. "Sho, what'sh your shtory?"

"Not with your mouth full, Fir," Pliny said, drifting off to sleep again.

"Oh, you know, I was told by Captain Mogrosh to Volunteer or die," Jack said, helping himself to some fine steak. "I tried stealing his wallet and he saw me do it. So, here I am."

Pliny had already drifted off while Fir couldn't help but shake her head. She thought back to Montgomery Tiberius, the man who basically raised her since she could remember waking up in the forests of Seven at age nine, the man currently awaiting her return home after Games season ended. The young woman shook her head.

"Peacekeepers didn't used to be such meanie heads," Fir scoffed. "This new Head Peacekeeper is a real buzzkill. No fun at all."

"Are any Peacekeepers?" Jack asked.

"The ones I grew up with were. I mean, grew up from age nine. Never did find out what happened before," Fir shrugged cheerfully. "So here's what you do, you win and rub it in his ugly face!"

"Oh, way ahead of you," Jack assured her, winking. "I've got it worked out."

And as he quietly explained his tricky ideas to Fir she had to admit he really did know what he was talking about. The pair shake hands, the decision made for Fir to be the one to focus on mentoring Jack through the Games.

After they take time to set up a banana peel for the Escort to slip over, of course.

* * *

Most tributes use the training days to impress sponsors at the parade, learn plenty of new skills at the training centre and maybe even make a few alliances or minor deals before the day of the yearly Cornucopia Bloodbath.

Jack is not most tributes.

He spends a lot of his time stealing things right under the noses of other tributes and the staff in the training centre. He has a plan, one that he needs to keep his thieving skills sharp for. Hence, a lot of his time consists of stealing the favoured weapons of the Careers, stealing the tokens of other tributes, stealing food when the canteen area is meant to be closed and off limits, stealing the odd Peacekeeper helmet here and there and even stealing the whistle of the man in charge of the training centre.

Naturally, to deflect suspicion, he dumps everything on the District One floor of the tribute building. It takes until near the end of the second day of training for anybody to realise that he's doing any of this stuff.

The unfortunate part is that the massive boy from One is who notices first.

"Oi!" the boy, Loki, roars when he sees Jack holding his tribute token – a golden ring. "That's mine, thief. Hand it over, now."

"I'm amazed it took this long for people to figure me out," Jack remarked, chuckling as he handed the ring back over. "There, all better?"

"I'm killing you on day one, asshole," Loki said, storming back over to his allies. "I'll do what that Peacekeeper should have done to you!"

"Will that be before or after tea?" Jack asks, snickering.

He ducks, barely dodging the knife Loki throws in his fury. He wises up after that and behaves, but now he's made himself quite notable to all around him.

Fir is impressed and only upset that Jack didn't wait until the third day to get caught.

"You're notable now, Jack. A pre-Games conflict like this really sets the narrative and stop you being boring. Boredom kills in the arena," Fir said that night, pacing around the District Seven floor. "So long as you're not killed at the bloodbath you could really make this work. I assume you know how to not die?"

"Of course," Jack says between bites of his steak. "It's called living."

"When you're right, you're right," Fir muses. "Saaaay, what are you doing with that silverware?"

"Not stealing it," Jack replied as he stole the silverware, stuffing it into his pockets.

* * *

District Seven had never been very popular at the interviews, besides the unsolved mystery surrounding Fir's origins, and Jack was no exception to this trend. While he waited for his turn the audience were going gaga over the four deadly Careers and the rumours that Mortimer, by now getting on in years, had gotten anus cancer. Repulsive gossip or not, the facts were clear: Jack wasn't going to be a highlight of the night.

That suited him just fine, of course. A thief is most effective when nobody is looking their way.

Jack tried to be charming and mysterious all the same, as for all he knew that may have been what sponsors were looking for this year. Talk of his survival on the streets, friendship with Fir and gentlemanly nature made for a decent interview. Or at least decent by the standards of District Seven. He had nothing on the Careers, of course.

But an Outlier Volunteer is always rare and especially so in those earlier years, so naturally this topic simply has to be bought up before Jack's interview is over.

"There was quite a bit of drama at the reaping," Mortimer says, amused. "You seemed eager to get going. The transmission had to be edited, per the norm, so mind telling us?"

"Oh, I got caught trying to nick the Head Peacekeeper's wallet because I was hungry," Jack says, laughing at the memory. "He said he'd kill me if I didn't Volunteer for the Games. He held a gun right up to my face and everything. Said he'd shoot me where I'd bleed to death in the most pain possible."

It was all lies of course, but Jack had no reason to hold himself back. If he was going down, so was the Head Peacekeeper who had caused so much physical and emotional damage to many citizens of Seven!

"He did?!" Mortimer gasped, as if scandalised by what he was being told.

"That's right. Said he'd burn down a house or two as well and blame it on the citizens. He's done it before," Jack sighed, as if dismayed by the injustice of it all. "I just want Captain Mogrosh to know that I'm gonna win and I'm gonna come home. He's given Seven their first ever male Victor. You'll see~."

Jack leaves the stage to some applause, but he already begins to fade from memory as the tattoo covered girl from Eight makes her way on stage for her own interview. Having scored a mere five, he's hardly anybody's choice of Victor in this year of comparatively strong tributes.

The only person who really remembers him at all is Captain Mogrosh, who gets no sleep that night due to the angry phone calls he receives over several hours from higher-ups in the Capitol. He looks forward to seeing the death of the willowy thief the following day.

Jack sleeps soundly. Maybe he's got it under control or maybe he's just ridiculously overconfident, but he has a plan and knows exactly how he is going to put it into place.

* * *

The Peacekeepers escort Jack to his own launch room, just as they do for every single tribute. He tries nothing funny. No tricks, no wild plans, no hassle. He's silent, as if accepting his fate. The Peacekeepers don't question it, both of those escorting Jack thinking that anything that makes their job easier is a good thing.

The instant they turn around Jack takes a chance and, seeing the golden opportunity, snatches an item from the holster of one of the Peacekeepers. The item safely concealed in his pockets, he is left in his launch room without a further word or any sort of interrogation.

As his Stylist, a man who looks more like a crocodile than a human being, gives him his outfit – russet brown as is tradition for District Seven and something with rather long, airy sleeves and legs to allow in air and deflect heat – and leaves him to get changed in a room to the side there's just one thing Jack can do.

He smirks.

When he steps into the tube that will take him to the surface he shows no fear beyond the instinctive shudders any youth feels when endangered. No, he mainly does something else.

He laughs, having gotten away with another theft. He grips the item hidden in his long sleeve like a lifeline, mentally preparing himself.

* * *

The arena is a very far cry from the barren, stormy island of the previous year. The Gamemakers have gone for another desert this time around, one worse than the generally bland-by-modern-standards arena used for the Fourth Hunger Games. The sand is tinged a sort of angry orange colour and numerous vile tar pits are spread out around the massive arena. All this and the occasional gusts of powerful wind and the hungry vulture mutts make it an arena which effortlessly has most Outliers crying and starting to tremble.

Except Jack. Jack doesn't give a shit.

The gong rings and all of the twenty four tributes charge in to grab as many of the vital supplies as they can manage, especially precious water. The orange sand is quick to become smeared a gruesome shade of red as the pair from Twelve are effortlessly gutted by Loki, the boy from Five has an arm outright severed by the sword wielded by Gattica from Two, the poor girl from Eleven has her face smashed by Ember from Two's sledgehammer and even the Helanai finds herself bleeding out on the sand after a desperate attack from the boy from Six, the youth almost mad from pure fear.

Jack doesn't focus on any of the madness, simply dashing around the area like a blur as he grabs up bottles of water and some loaves of bread into a fairly large backpack he'd found halfway towards the Cornucopia.

He grabs up a machete from inside the Cornucopia, turning to see Loki grinning smugly at him with a bloodsoaked sword in hand.

"Told you I'd get you," the boy from One sneers, ready to make his third kill.

Loki gets taken off of his guard when Jack, rather than backing away or cowering, lunges at him. The cameras don't see the cause of it due to the cramped space and the rapid flurry of movement, but one thing is clear.

One moment Loki is standing strong.

The next moment he's laying on the ground in agony, twitching every few moments while rasping out gibberish.

Jack flees into the desert moments later, the approach of the other Careers being his signal that it's time to get the hell out of there. With the Careers tired from all the battling they've done and unwilling to leave the precious bounty of the Cornucopia behind they don't chase Jack for long.

As the cameras watch the four Careers regroup and the six Outliers still alive scatter off into the orange dunes and around the tar pits the general response, aside excitement and despair, is confusion.

How did Jack knock Loki down so effortlessly? The footage is checked, but nothing is seen due to the close space, rapid speed and the camera angles. It's agreed that the most likely answer is that Jack must have known how to put pressure on nerves to knock people down and hid this skill as a secret weapon.

But they are nowhere close. As Jack runs off into the desert, chuckling in mischief and triumph, he believes he's got the Games on lock already even though it's not even been a full hour.

After all, he's the only one with a stolen Peacekeeper's taser hidden in his large sleeves.

* * *

Jack's confidence lasts until sundown. He has easily the best weapon of the tributes, but that doesn't change the fact he's among the youngest of those still alive and that the Careers will be on the hunt soon. Not to mention that the other Outliers could try to kill him too.

So the thief plays it smart and moves himself somewhere that he won't be easy to reach. In this case, it means using all of his skills in balance to make it across narrow pathways and some rocks jutting out from the ground to reach an island in the centre of a massive tar pit.

"Good thing the Cornucopia had no bows this year," Jack remarked, taking out a water bottle. "I should be nice and safe here... for now anyway."

He toasted to the camera, guzzling down the water a moment later. Surviving in the arena was thirsty work after all.

While Jack slept during the first night in the desert of tar pits, two major things of note ended up happening.

The first was that the Careers located the boy from Six, the first tribute in years from the transportation District that survived the Bloodbath, and cut him to bloody pieces.

The second was that the oddly bulky boy from Three tried to reach Jack during the night, but due to lacking the thief's parkour and balance skills ended up falling into the tar. Jack awoke to see the boy drowning in the tar, screaming for help.

Alas, Jack had no help to give. None of his weapons could reach the boy to give him a quick end; he could only get up and flee into the night to avoid any attention the howling and screaming was sure to bring towards the area.

* * *

By sunrise of the second day Jack met another tribute. In this case, it was the tattoo covered girl from Eight: Twiller Mulgrew. She was thirsty and badly so, a fact that gave Jack an idea upon getting a look at the weapon in her hand.

"Water for your cutlass," Jack offered her. "Deal?"

"Deal," Twiller said, willingly tossing the weapon nearby. Thirsty or not, she wasn't enough of a fool to pass the blade right into Jack's hand. "Water, please..."

Jack kept his word, passing three of his many bottles over to the taller girl. She went through the first in about five seconds and was halfway through the second before she said anything else.

"The Careers are over that way," she said, pointing over a nearby dune. "That's why I'm going this way."

"...You know what, I'm gonna go confront them," Jack said, snickering as he headed off in the direction Twiller had pointed out. "I see a golden opportunity here."

Twiller called him crazy and took her leave. Jack did not deny it, of course, given he felt everybody in the dystopia that was Panem had at least some kind of craziness within them.

Jack wasn't a stupid sort of crazy though, he was crazy enough to propel himself to the top by taking out the Career pack. All he needed was the help of a mutt or two to pull it off.

That and his stolen taser.

"Alright Panem, get ready for a show," Jack remarked, a sly grin adorning his face.

* * *

It's mid afternoon when he finds the Careers and almost sunset when Jack reveals himself to them. By then vulture mutts are flying overhead, a dormant sort of threat for now. They follow the Careers, having seen them cut down the sailor girl from Four and intending to swoop down on the next dead body.

When Jack calls out to them Panem as a whole expect that it will be him who dies next. Even his Mentor Fir lets out a soft whimper, wondering why he is suddenly throwing his life away.

But Jack isn't afraid. He's ready to win.

"Hi guys," he greets them cheerfully. "Having a good time in the arena so far?"

"Well enough, I'd say. Yourself?" Ember replies, playing along.

"Oh, pretty good, can't really complain," Jack says, shrugging lightly. "I'd rather speed things up if it's all the same to you. Shall we get this thing started?"

"With pleasure," Loki says, grunting maliciously as he storms over towards Jack.

Just like in the bloodbath Loki is zapped by the unseen taser and falls to the ground twitching. Jack quickly puts an end to him with the machete before the rest of the pack can properly process what they have just seen. The boom of the cannon gets them back to their senses, the trio staring at the willowy boy from Seven.

"Scared?" Jack giggles, winking.

The Careers move in for the kill, a three on one beating seeming like a good enough plan to overpower whatever secret trick Jack has been pulling off.

Gattica falls with a scream and, as Jack barely dodges to the side to avoid the powerful blows from Ember and Euphoria, the Career girls soon crumple to the ground with screams of pain. The trio of Careers lay still, twitching and moaning with their consciousness slipping away.

Jack loots them fast and leaves them to their fate, figuring that with the heat and vultures both factors this year they'll be dead anyway without him having to commit more murder.

Sure enough three cannons fire before the anthem plays. But Jack can't help shaking his head, a brief grimace flashing across his face.

The third cannon was for the boy from Ten who lost a savage battle against tattoo covered Twiller from Eight. Ember is still alive and won't fall for the same trick again. Not without Jack risking himself more than he already did.

The searing cuts to his cheek aren't something he wants more of, but he may have no choice.

* * *

The heat gets worse on the third day, reducing the speed of the tributes vastly. Even with his plentiful – well, plentiful when compared to other few tributes still alive - water supplies Jack feels the pressure of the elements, aimlessly wandering through the desert.

It takes him about twenty minutes to successfully count who is dead and alive, concluding that it's just himself, Ember and Twiller still alive.

He tells a few jokes to keep the audience entertained as he ambles along, feeling certain that his two opponents are just as worn out and in pain as he is. He's absolutely correct, of course, and bit by bit his puns start giving him a gradual majority of the screentime.

Jack spends the night amongst a cluster of rocks. Despite the weariness that fills him he manages to teasingly give the nearest camera a wink.

"Looks like District Seven is gonna have their third Victor soon," he says, chuckling lightly. "All thanks to you Captain Mogrosh."

Jack manages to sleep for a few hours, but the increasingly erratic Head Peacekeeper sure doesn't. He's kept up with more shouts of anger on the phone and the unease that something bad is going to happen. Perhaps worse than the runty thief winning.

Nobody can say for sure even now why he is able to seemingly send people to the ground without effort. How does he leave them twitching in pain?

* * *

The vultures screech and caw as the sun rises on the fourth and final day in the arena, the nasty bird mutts driving the last three tributes closer together. Jack does his best to outrun them, suffering minor bites and pecks, but nothing that anybody could call a serious wound.

While Jack reaches the most vile of the tar pits first, the girls take longer. Twiller is dehydrated, slow and losing awareness while Ember has no fluid left for tears and has a throat like sandpaper.

The Career girl doesn't make it half a mile before she collapses, becoming food for the vultures when dehydration claims her soul. Twiller is left bitten and bloody, but passes the invisible line to the finale area before they can do even worse. The vultures fly off, leaving her with Jack to contend with.

"So, shall we do this?" Jack asks, moving closer to her with a machete in one hand and the taser hidden in the sleeve of his other arm.

"Urrrrgggh..." Twiller sways badly, hardly able to take a few steps and take a half-hearted swing with a sharp rock.

With something resembling pity in his eyes Jack closes the gap, uses the taser and lands a clean stab against the tattoo covered girl from Eight. She's dead before she hits the tar, Jack accidentally dropping the taser as his last opponent falls.

But as the victory trumpets ring out and the hovercraft descends he figures it hardly matters if the weapon he used to cheat his way to the win is lost forever.

He's the last one left and the good life awaits. Money, food and so many things to steal!

* * *

Street smart as he is, Jack is still a brash youth without much of a filter. So, he's rather like most teenagers in that regard. That's why he admits the con he pulled live at the final interview without any hesitation or worry. He's got no family, no real attachment to Seven and his only friend is a fellow Victor, so what can they really do to him now?

"So how did you do it?" Mortimer asks as the recap footage comes to an end. "Sending them falling over like that, twitching like little bugs... I'm lost. Experts say it's either hypnotism of some sort of you pressing nerves quicker than the cameras could process. Who was right?"

"Nobody," Jack says, a cocky grin on his face. "You sure you all wanna know?"

The crowd cheers, crying out that they do. With a laugh, Jack decides to go for gold and top Pliny in how much of a national embarrassment his Victory will be.

"I swiped a taser from one of the Peacekeepers who took me to my launch room and just used that," Jack says, bursting out into laughter. "I cheated! Surprise!"

Jack makes a jazz hands motion, laughing at how stunned and, in some cases, horrified the crowd look. In the time it takes for Mortimer to stammer out a whimper at this admission the executions of Captain Mogrosh and the Peacekeeper that Jack had stolen the taser from to begin with are ordered by Orion.

But per the rules he himself wrote down, Orion cannot do a thing to Jack. Much like Pliny almost twenty years ago there are also no family members nor friends that he can do a thing to. The only friend that this little cheater has is Fir, a Victor too and a rather popular one.

However, the more the President thinks about it the more he realises there is somebody he can kill to send a very vile message towards Jack for what he has done.

* * *

The after-party ends up being something of a disaster. Between the Capitolites hating the fact a 'cheater' won, Olga being beside herself in fury over what Jack did, Bronze and Jack getting into a fist fight and Mizar discreetly giving Jack the offer to join the circle of rebellious Victors the inevitable result is a party nobody really enjoys.

The train ride home is pleasant enough, with Jack and Fir cracking plenty of jokes and drinking soda to celebrate Jack's victory. Pliny manages to stay awake to join in, happy to have another Victor moving into the Victor Village, but nonetheless cautious that something bad is sure to happen.

"They won't be happy with you," Pliny says, yawning. "You cheated, Jack."

"I prefer to call it taking creative liberties," Jack replies, winking. "So, we all set to go out for dinner tonight? Escort's treat."

Sure enough Jack holds up the wallet of the Escort, something he'd stolen during the after-party. Fir laughs and even Pliny has to smile. They never did anything to her after she won by sleeping through the Games, so maybe Jack will have dodged a bullet as well? After all, he is conveniently an orphan without anybody close to him.

She's very wrong.

They pull into the station, met with thunderous applause from the citizens of Seven. All seems well for a few moments, especially as Montgomery Tiberius comes forth to congratulate his adoptive daughter on a successful year of Mentoring, the man flanked by a few youths who applaud Jack. All seems well.

Gunfire rings out. Lots and lots of gunfire. First there are screams and then a horrified silence. Fir stares, pale faced and shaking in the most horrific feelings of heartbreak and trauma at what she sees.

Montgomery Tiberius, the man who was always like a father to her before and after adoption, lays in a pool of his own blood covered in bullets. The youths, none of them any older then thirteen, have been similarly shot.

Fir screams. She breaks down, screaming and wailing until she is breathless, tears flowing down her agonised face. As she weeps and Pliny faints the only Victor left standing to witness things is Jack. He watches, stunned, as a burly and cruel man marches up to him.

"They committed treason," the man says, almost lazily. "Move along now, nothing to see here. Just traitors who got their rightful punishment."

"Traitors? What?! What did they do?!" Jack screeches.

"Does it matter?" the man asks, smug. He lowers his smoking machine gun, giving Jack a firm look. "Oh, we've not met before have we? Tirek Johar, your new Head Peacekeeper."

As Jack is dragged away from the bodies alongside unconscious Pliny and screaming Fir he doesn't make a sound. For the first time in his life he's quiet for reasons beside committing a theft.

He won, but he didn't get away with it. Because of him Fir just lost her family and several kids just lost their lives for no reason. It's surely only the start of things.

It hurts to see his Mentor crying. It hurts worse knowing it's all because of him.

All of this because he tried to steal a wallet.

* * *

"Well, whatever happened to Jack in the arena and after let's hope he made the best of life once he got out," Peeta said after a moment of silence.

"I'm sure he did better than at least a few other Victors did," Katniss said as she led Peeta further down the street. "Of course, saying that, I don't know all of these people. Maybe he lived the worst of them all. Can't claim to know."

"Well, if all goes well at that party we'll know soon enough," Peeta said as he followed after Katniss. "So, who is next?"

The next face on the side walk was of a girl with glasses, freckles, very tidy and proper hair with an expression of incredible shyness.

"Pi Orbit," Peeta read. "Never heard of her."

"That's becoming a pattern for some of these early Victors. Our generation knows nothing of them, besides Duke," Katniss remarked.

* * *

And there we go, the first boy from Seven to ever live... pretty much only because he cheated. Gotta hand it to him, the plan took guts. Then again, those guts were paid back with blood... eh, you know what I mean. The third decade is off to a gruesome start and it's only gonna get gruesome-er soon enough.

Some readers of mine who read BB closely will notice that Pi Orbit is from the exact same games 'Fawn Odinshoot' won. Basically, I kinda just grew to not like the name and changed it. A few tweaks to my own canon have kind of been needed due to times changing and things moving on y'know, and that's one of them. Just clearing that up for next time~.

* * *

 **Stats**

 **District 1:** Peridot Gaudy (8th Games), Crystal McCree (14th Games), Bronze Marley (19th Games)

 **District 2:** Baron Overwhill (4th Games), Runa Peace (7th Games), Olga Machete (10th Games), Rook Valiant (17th Games), Boulder Atherston (20th Games)

 **District 3:** Honorius Perthshire (5th Games)

 **District 4:** Museida Selkirk (3rd Games), Mags Flanagan (11th Games)

 **District 5:** Shunt Gaspar (12th Games), Isobel Sparks (18th Games)

 **District 6:** N/A

 **District 7:** Pliny Aransio (2nd Games), Fir Buzz (9th Games), Jack Tylos (21st Games)

 **District 8:** Woof Casino (16th Games)

 **District 9:** Mizar Aldjoy (1st Games), Gwenith Rosebud (13th Games)

 **District 10:** N/A

 **District 11:** Bear Redfoot (15th Game)

 **District 12:** Duke Saint-Rose (6th Games)


	23. Pi Orbit

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Hunger Games, They belong to Suzanne Collins.

 **Note:** Time to keep the Cheating Death train a'movin! Choo choo! In all seriousness, this story is seriously fun to write and the fact the first Quarter Quell is looming very near has me quite motivated to get things written out. Especially due a few of the plans I have in mind to kick off the fourth decade of the Games, but that'll all come by in due time. Until then, who is ready for some misery and sadness? I know I am! :D

* * *

"So... Pi?" Katniss silently repeated the word to herself a few times, as if to make sure that she had gotten it right. "Who names their kid Pi?"

"I guess the same people who give their kids names like Enobaria, Beetee, Snag, Pasture..." Peeta trailed off, his point made.

"Ok, I get what you mean. Still... Pi?" Katniss shook her head. "I always thought Three had more Victors than they've gotten so far."

"The way I remember it they only ever had five," Peeta replied. "Not the most and not the least either, nor the second least."

"Lucky them," Katniss said, dry. "Wonder what the life of Pi was like."

* * *

 **Name:** Pi Orbit

 **Gender:** Female

 **District:** 3

 **Age:** 15

 **Kills:** 2

* * *

 **THEN**

Pi Orbit lives a happy life. With doting, gentle parents who adore her, her best friend and twin brother Wire, her protective older siblings Omri and Penn (twins) and her lively younger siblings Weld and Dynamo (also twins) there is never a shortage of life or fun going on in their humble home in the middle class area of District Three. Even if things are not perfect it's a clear fact that Pi will never be alone.

This suits her fine. The shy programming expert has never ever been the sort to enjoy being left by herself, always preferring to be with friendly company at any passing moment. A bit of a sheltered girl, she's known as a momma's girl and a daddy's girl all in one. They love her and she loves them; in a place like Panem it's all she can ask for and Pi feels glad that she has such a wonderful family.

She's gifted, but very shy. Painfully shy. When in front of a crowd she can hardly stutter out the words she's required to say. Having a natural stutter is one thing, but when she gets nervous she's almost impossible to understand.

A bit of an issue when one happens to be presenting a massive coding project for the chance of gaining a cash prize and a nice, shiny trophy.

Pi managed to convince her teacher to let her go last so she could calm herself down, but now she sees the downside of this. The long wait for her turn is making her freak out all over again!

"C-c-c-calm down Pi, y-y-y-you can do t-t-t-t-t-this," she stammers, fruitlessly trying to gain some control on herself before it's too late.

She watches the clock tick closer to three in the afternoon, the time when her presentation shall begin and truly make or break her chances of success. At the current rate, things point towards the latter outcome.

The only thing that spares her from fainting is Wire entering the room, a nice cherry soda in hand. He's quick to pass it over and take his usual spot beside her as she drinks. After all, it's hardly the first time that he has had to calm her down from an anxiety attack.

"You can do this," he tells her with a smile. "You're the smartest perosn in our school, literally everybody knows that."

"T-t-t-t-t-that's easy for y-y-y-you to say, you're n-n-n-not going on that s-s-s-stage," she squeaks, barely audible.

"I didn't earn it, you did. You're a genius, so don't worry," Wire gives his twin sister a hug. "Hey, here's an idea. While you give that presentation you should just look at all of us. We'll all be sitting at the front row, and you never stutter around us."

"You t-t-t-t-t-think it'll work?" Pi asks, gulping.

"I promise you, it will," Wire says, gently tightening the hug. "I'm so proud of you, genius. We all are."

Despite her nerves Pi cannot help but return the hug. Maybe Wire is right? Maybe things will work out alright after all?

He's right.

Pi keeps her gaze on her family and hardly stutters at all. She earns a standing ovation, a shiny golden trophy and a notably large cash prize. Of course, none of this can compare to how proud her family is of her and all the smiles and cheers they send her way.

Pi knows life is great as she is pulled in her a big family hug.

* * *

 **NOW**

She can hardly watch as she stares at the screen in the mentoring control room, a broken wreck of a person. Her face is pale as a cheat, her eyes near lifeless and the urge to harm herself quite strong.

She holds herself together only for the sake of her poor tribute, an innocent girl who only got voted into the Quell because she was an orphan that nobody would miss. With the Careers driven off for the first time, a psychopath alliance has begun.

An alliance that catches her girl before she can get away.

Pi wails and screams, broken beyond belief, as the maniacs on screen tear her tribute limb from limb, laughing madly the whole time as they put her through the most agonisingly painful death in the history of the Hunger Games.

Pi sobs, wishing she was dead. She's still sobbing long after the cannon fires and Honorius gently leads her off to her room for a safe slumber away from the carnage. Not a single one of his kind words do a thing to make her feel better.

* * *

 **THEN**

Her name was only in the reaping bowl four times out of thousands and numerous other children took lots of tesserae to survive the winter. But when the Escort, dressed like a flamingo of course, picks out a paper slip it doesn't matter because Pi Orbit is the female tribute for the Twenty Second Hunger Games.

Nobody volunteers for her, not for something like this.

Pi tries silently reciting her namesake to calm herself down, her body shuddering madly. She's two hundred digits in, and no calmer, by the time the worst case scenario strikes her.

Wire is reaped as well.

From that point on it's all a blur that Pi hardly remembers. Many tears being shed within the judgement building, hurried onto the train while being yanked along like a ragdoll, crying her way through the night, passing out into a terrified stupour.

The knowledge that either she and Wire will die or one will have to live without the other. There is no way around it, not one.

It's the worst night of the gifted youth's life. Worst so far at least. It only gets worse as she falls deeper into the stutter filled pit of terror with all the mocking crowd, the sadistic Careers and the fact the bright future she had has been snatched away for no good reason.

The only thing that prevents her from losing her sanity is the fact Wire is beside her every step of the way, promising to find them a way through this. He suggests that they survive to the top two and then just tie themselves together, refusing to do a thing.

Pi agrees, the naïve part of her blocking out all forms of logic and rational thought to keep her from losing her mind. He has to be right, he just has to be!

She doesn't stop believing him until the Games begin. Prior to that they train together, eat together, hide from the Careers together, score a four together.

As Pi is launched into a massive boneyard with distant mountains, rainclouds and pterodactyls flying in the air she starts to lose hope all over again, almost throwing up.

But, Wire is launched right beside her own pedestal and each have a backpack placed only ten feet from their own pedestals. Pi feels, just for a moment, perhaps there's a chance that it could all end up working out.

If Gwenith could beat her own awful odds back in the Thirteenth Hunger Games, why not they?

The reason why not comes half a minute into the Games when the girl from One impales Wire with a barbed spear. Pi breaks, screaming like a maniac and fleeing into the boneyard howling in grief. It's not just fear that drives her, but self hatred too.

After all, she stabbed the boy from Twelve in her desperate rush to escape.

* * *

 **NOW**

She wakes up in a screaming fit, wailing for the demons to leave her alone and let her die in peace. On and on the meltdown goes until Honorius comes running, trying his hardest to calm her down. A far cry from the arrogant brat he once was, he's become a gentle man who lives each day with the goal of caring for others.

But no amount of care is going to help Pi get any better. She's broken beyond any sort of repair, like the mangled remains of a grenade after detonation.

They try to relax, perhaps watch something nice on TV, but the broadcast is interrupted with more footage of the Quarter Quell. The sight of the rapist from Eight having his way with the screaming girl from One has the panic attack triple and go to the point Pi cannot breath properly. Honorius turns the screen off right before the pyromaniac from Five starts setting fires all over the place but the damage is done.

Pi rocks back and forth, whimpering and pleading for Honorius to just end her.

"N-n-n-n-n-n-nobody h-h-h-has to know..." she sniffles, her sobs thick and loud.

Honorius heart always aches when a tribute from his home District dies, but seeing the sorry state of the only tribute he managed to save makes his heart hurt in an even worse way.

* * *

 **THEN**

The Games that year are some of the most gruesome that have ever been seen. Half of the tributes die in the opening melee, including the girl from Two, but it becomes apparent sooner than later that they ended up being the lucky ones.

The fact is that the mutts this year are far too powerful for the tributes to handle. At first the dinosaurs just distantly roar, keeping the tributes on their toes as they spread out and start to explore, or hide.

Pi huddles and cries in a ditch near a berry bush. She can't speak through the stuttering and shaking, only able to moan in emotional agony. She's absolutely silent as a T-Rex wanders by later that day, petrified from terror. It wanders on, having not spotted her.

It did, however, spot the girl from Five hiding up a tree only a few hundred yards away. Pi hears every single scream and wail for mercy right up to when the cannon booms.

She hears more screams during the night as the reptilian inhabitants of the boneyard arena claim more victims as the hours pass by. By the time morning arrives Pi hasn't slept at all and has heard two more people screaming in the darkness.

The second day goes by with her shivering in a primal state of terror in the ditch, only leaving twice to gather berries from the bush.

Part of her wants them to be poisonous.

By the time the day comes to an end there are just six tributes left standing, nobody able to stand against the horrible dinosaurs that even the Gamemakers are losing control of by now.

The boy from One sure couldn't. He staggers over and falls into the ditch, half dead from his grievous cuts. For a moment he looks just as scared as Pi does, silently pleading her for a way out.

She makes it quick, understanding the boy's pain. He dies too fast to repay the favour.

"P-p-p-p-p-please h-h-h-h-help..."

* * *

 **NOW**

Honorius handles all of the public speaking, doing his best to keep the reporters satisfied and ensure that the devious hacker from Three remains alive for as long as possibly, perhaps to a victory. He does his best to keep them away from Pi, the girl so fragile that it would barely take a mouse squeaking to set her off into a panic attack.

For the most part it works, at least until one reporter asks if Pi thinks her family would support a 'cyber terrorist' or not. The mere mention of her family has her enter a public breakdown, her screams raw and miserable.

Honorius arranges for laxatives to be put into the tea of that specific reporter and helps Pi to a limo that will take her back to her bedroom. He doesn't even pretend it's a real solution, but what else can he do?

Pi spends the night staring up at the ceiling, hardly blinking, thinking for a moment she heard Wire asking her to join him.

* * *

 **THEN**

It's another short Hunger Games this year, one that only lasts to sunset of the third day. Another was torn apart after Pi stabbed the boy from One and by midday the dinosaurs have torn the girl from One and the boy from Nine to shreds. By the time the Gamemakers manage to subdue the dinosaur mutts only Pi, Coast from Four and Rake from Eleven are still alive.

Pi is wasting away in the ditch by this point, likely to die from dehydration or even a heart attack at the current rate. The Gamemakers drive Rake and Coast together – they make sure to use powerful wind, _**not**_ dinosaur mutts – with the intent of leading the winner of this duel towards Pi to end off this mess of a Hunger Games.

While Pi cries and pleads for her mother to save her Rake and Coast duel in a light shower of rain. It's fast paced and desperate, neither boy making it personal and just wanting to go home. Rake manages to land a fatal stab to Coast's chests after four minutes.

But a nanosecond later Coast sinks her trident into Rake's gut. They collapse side by side, bleeding out from their grievous wounds in under two minutes.

The arena is oddly, almost hauntingly quiet after that. The nation watches, stunned, as Pi is announced as the Victor and lifted out of the filthy ditch by the claw of the hovercraft. She hangs limply, oblivious due to having passed out an hour prior.

The Capitol sees a poor excuse for a Victor, but one at least better than the cheater from the previous year.

Honorius, stunned that he finally has a Victor, sees a broken girl who needs help badly. Help he vows to give her, even if it takes all his life to do so.

* * *

 **NOW**

The Capitol audience cheers as the boy from District Two flees for his life from the psychopath alliance, the evil maniacs out for his blood. Most of all the cannibal from Ten.

It's sick, twisted and a reverse of how things normally go for Career tributes. The boy hardly holds himself together.

The Capitol citizens cannot get enough of the vile action on screen.

Pi has stopped paying attention, spending a full day laying face down on her bed. A few Avoxes have been assigned to watch over her and stop her doing anything 'foolish'. But even in their own broken state, they can't help but wonder if keeping her alive is the cruel thing to do.

"S-s-s-s-somebody make it e-e-e-end..." Pi sobs, her pillow wet like a waterlogged sponge. "P-p-p-p-please..."

When a replay of her tribute's death plays on screen a new meltdown begins, one of the worst of her entire eighteen years alive. It's a wonder she makes it to the morning.

* * *

 **THEN**

Life goes back to normal in the lazy Capitol, but it never goes back to the way it was for Pi. It doesn't matter that she's safe and sound back home, surrounded by her family and her incredibly loyal and gentle Mentor, all of them there for her any time she needs it.

Wire is not there with them and he never will be.

Pi doesn't fall into bad habits like drugs or beer. She just lays in her bed, staring at the ceiling and crying often. It goes on like this until her mess of a Victory Tour comes to an end. Time cannot heal these wounds but it at least makes it bearable.

Seeing the way the District enjoys the extra food her win has bought them gives her some reason to feel a certain amount less horrible.

"Don't forget, I am always here for you," Honorius whispers, hugging her gently.

Pi believes him. In fact, had this been the end of the nightmare she may have even been able to recover from the trauma like Honorius mostly managed to, give or take a decade. With her family there for her too, she dares to think that one day there may be something like a happy ending in her life. Even with Wire gone, she's not alone.

This changes when, in their final year of reaping eligibility, Omri and Penn are both reaped for the Twenty Third Hunger Games.

All the misery, pain and fear comes back in a flash and it's like almost no progress has been made. Honorius works hard and Pi works harder, doing absolutely everything she can to bring one of her siblings home. A back to back win is not impossible, right?

It's not, as proven by a pair of twins from District One decades in the future.

But District Three never manages it. In their worst recorded performance in all the years of the Hunger Games both Omri and Penn lay dead on the wet ground in under twenty seconds. Just like that, Pi feels more broken than psychologists assumed possible and barely speaks for months, save only to sob for her dead siblings.

The fact the Victor ends up being the person who killed them only makes it worse.

* * *

 **NOW**

Pi doesn't care about who ended up winning the horrific Quarter Quell.

Pi doesn't care that the Capitol tut and cluck disappointingly at her tears, calling her a sore loser and saying there will always be more Hunger Games to try and win.

Pi doesn't care that Bronze mutters how pathetic she is to a snake eyed man he's befriended recently.

Pi doesn't care that her District send words of support and desperate hope for her well being.

Pi doesn't care about anything, only that she has nothing left at all. On the train ride back home to District Three she finally decides to take a rest, one she's needed for so long.

* * *

 **THEN**

Some say that things always get worse before they end up getting better. Pi disagrees whole heartedly with this particular notion.

Things can only get worse and worse. They never ever get better.

The Twenty Fourth Hunger Games was another brutal, agonising loss. Not just because District Three failed to get either tribute past the bloodbath, but because this year Pi's remaining siblings Weld and Dynamo were reaped for the Games, both cut down by the Careers.

Returning home a wreck of a human being it only got worse, if that were even possible. Her parents, unable to focus due to the sheer grief they were going through, were fried by a generator at the factory they worked at. Pi is all alone, her family merely dust in the wind.

Honorius remains there for her as he promised, constantly dedicating everything that he is, everything that makes up his own soul, to keep Pi going day by day.

It's obvious Pi doesn't feel like there's any point to anything anymore. She doesn't leave her house for a year, besides the time the Peacekeepers drag her off to the central square when the latest Victor comes by on their tour. At least the chatterbox didn't kill her siblings this time.

The motormouth is silenced for once when he sees just how awful Pi looks and asks if there's any way he can possibly help.

"K-k-k-k-k-kill m-m-m-m-m-me..." she begs.

Her request isn't granted, the boy having neither the means nor the guts for it.

* * *

 **NOW**

"I'll be back in half an hour," Honorius says as he gently tucks Pi into bed. "By all means, call me if you need anything. We can recover. Us Victors are the tough sort."

Pi doesn't respond, merely whimpering as Honorius leaves to buy some food for her. She waits until he's out of the village before she moves her way to the basement, the place of her long abandoned workshop.

Pictures of her family are set up on the walls as are trophies she won back before everything went so horrifically wrong. Pi gazes are them, twitching, but doesn't waste any time.

It's child's play for her to quickly rig up a small generator from the bits and bobs in her basement and have it flickering with powerful electricity. It's even faster for her to write a note to Honorius, thanking him for trying his best to help her and wishing him all the best in his life. She assures him he's a good person.

Pi takes one final look at the picture on the day she won that programming contest, the day that feels like an eternity ago by now. All her family are there, smiling. Strangely, even she is smiling.

* * *

 **THEN**

All of Pi's family keep the group hug going on as the crowd applauds the winner of the contest. It's a perfect day for the family, like nothing could be better. Pi can only giggle from all the praise sent her way.

"See? I told you that you could do it," Wire grins, gently ruffling his twin's hair.

"Our Pi's a genius. Such a great future ahead of her," her father tells a reporter, beaming with pride.

Pi smiles warmly. The odds truly are in her favour.

* * *

 **NOW**

Pi lets the photo fall to the floor, taking one final breath. Her family are dead, the agony never ends, nothing is worth a damn anymore, she just wants to rest...

"Wire, mommy, daddy... everybody... I'm coming. We'll gonna be together again," Pi whispers, almost sounding at peace.

Pi grips the deadly, live wires with both hands until she fades away. The odds truly weren't in her favour.

* * *

With a silence kept for Pi the pair from Twelve begin to walk to the next face on the side walk.

"Crazy, really, how the people in the Capitol keep moving around like nothing has happened. Like, as if nothing is any different," Peeta said as he walked beside Katniss.

"I'd call it less crazy and more what they've done for decades already," Katniss replied, rather cold.

Peeta didn't push it.

They soon came to the twenty third face on the Walk of Victors. The face that stared back at them looked a mixture of sly and smug, with shoulder length hair and what looked like an ace of spades tattooed on both cheeks.

"Tide Luther," Katniss read. "Hmm, interesting tattoos, I'll say that much."

* * *

Well, I sure feel thoroughly depressed after writing that one. I guess it takes a certain level of tragedy to bring a tear to your eye when writing your own story, huh? But yeah, that was Pi, the first female from Three to win and the first Victor to ever die post-Victory. While the odds of such a streak of misfortune happening are astronomically low, the fact is that so long as those names are in the reaping bowl it remains in the realm of possibility. Some Victors truly have no luck at all...

The next Victor may have some scratching their heads, them having not been mentioned in Urchin's timeline. That's another thing I've ended up changing; it won't effect Urchin's series in terms of plot or outcome, but basically D4 needs a few more Victors or they'll be having half of them happen at #65 onwards. Mainly an OCD thing, but yeah, just pointing that out. Stay tuned for more!

* * *

 **Stats**

 **District 1:** Peridot Gaudy (8th Games), Crystal McCree (14th Games), Bronze Marley (19th Games)

 **District 2:** Baron Overwhill (4th Games), Runa Peace (7th Games), Olga Machete (10th Games), Rook Valiant (17th Games), Boulder Atherston (20th Games)

 **District 3:** Honorius Perthshire (5th Games), Pi Orbit (22nd Games)

 **District 4:** Museida Selkirk (3rd Games), Mags Flanagan (11th Games)

 **District 5:** Shunt Gaspar (12th Games), Isobel Sparks (18th Games)

 **District 6:** N/A

 **District 7:** Pliny Aransio (2nd Games), Fir Buzz (9th Games), Jack Tylos (21st Games)

 **District 8:** Woof Casino (16th Games)

 **District 9:** Mizar Aldjoy (1st Games), Gwenith Rosebud (13th Games)

 **District 10:** N/A

 **District 11:** Bear Redfoot (15th Game)

 **District 12:** Duke Saint-Rose (6th Games)


	24. Tide Luther

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Hunger Games. They belong to Suzanne Collins.

 **Note:** Another chapter, another Victor and a step close to the looming Quarter Quell. This story is, honestly, sort of addictive to write. I can see why the 'one chapter for every Victor ever' genre is as popular as it is. It's just plain fun! Hope you all find this Victor fun as well; Careers can come from outside One and Two on extremely rare occasions... but who says glory is the central reason behind it?

* * *

"I have to admit, I would've expected Four to have more Victors by this point. Remember how many times they won in the last few years of the Hunger Games?" Katniss remarked.

"Yeah, they sure had a good streak going on," Peeta agreed. "I guess in these early days it was hard to consistently beat Two and even One. Not to mention Seven having a decent start, all things considered."

"Looks like Tide found a way to do it. Just like all the other 'Outliers'," Katniss said, looking down at the face at her feet. "What's with the tattoos, though?"

"Maybe it was a fashion trend in Four in those days?" Peeta suggested, shrugging. "I'm not sure, honestly."

The two kept a silence for a while, wondering what the third Victor from District Four had gone through decades ago. It didn't occur to them she'd been a Career tribute outside of One and Two.

* * *

 **23** **rd** **Annual Hunger Games**

 **Name:** Tide Luther

 **Gender:** Female

 **District:** 4

 **Age:** 17

 **Kills:** 6

* * *

The dice are thrown, rolling on for several dramatic seconds until they come to a stop.

Snake eyes.

It's exactly the kind of eyes that Tide Luther did not want to see. The man running the back alley casino pays no mind to her groaning, however. He's too busy chuckling to himself as he rakes in the Caps she had bet upon the roll of the dice. It's all his now.

"How many lost bets was that this week?" the man asks as he counts up the money. "Ten by now?"

"Twelve," Tide says, gulping. She glances around, as if expecting to be attacked at any given moment. "Come on, one more roll, _please_."

"No cash, no dice roll," the man says. "If I were you I'd get out of here before the Peacekeepers come by... or the debt collectors. Not sure which would be worse, given your gambling debts that get worse every day."

Tide is off soon after that, making a run for the boat she lives on without looking back once. She's been hounded by the debt collectors once already, that in itself being enough times to know being seen by them is only going to lead to great pain.

She makes her way on board an old whaling boat, a rickety galleon known as 'Pier Pressure'. An old thing that serves as a home for several working class girls and a personal training ground for Tide. It's not long before she is at the bottom deck, going through her evening routine of exercise and practising with a trident.

She's training for the arena and, with reaping day looming near again, the time for training is starting to run out.

It all started when she was twelve, really. A young girl with little to call her own in Panem besides the old clothes on her back, half a loaf of bread and ten Caps. Driven by hunger alone she placed a bet on the short girl from Five winning the Eighteenth Hunger Games. Amidst mockery and laughter her bet had been accepted by the crusty, salty men at the dock.

They stopped laughing when the first night came by and Isobel unleashed her karate skills onto the hapless Careers. They begin scowling when the girl went on to win and meant that they owed Tide quite the sum of money, money which she was all too happy to claim with a cheeky look on her face.

She became addicted fast. It became impossible for Tide to turn down a bet, no matter how outrageously unlikely or pathetically small time. The prospect of winning more money against the odds was almost like a drug to her, like the purest hit of morphling the druggies of District Six craved ever so often.

It landed her in debt. Lots of debt.

At first Tide was able to win enough bets to pay chunks of it back and spend a few stretches of time here and there without debt weighing her down. But as she grew up, the amount she owed grew with her. The addiction became harder and harder to control until, at the age of seventeen, she has been given until the end of July to pay back the money or end up in debtors prison. She's heard the stories of such a place and the knowledge makes her blood run cold.

So it all leads to how things are now; training for the Hunger Games. With her being near the top of the tribute age scale and having some muscle from her work on the boats she can't be said to have the worst odds. It's a gamble for sure, but she's willing to bet her life in exchange for fortune if it means avoiding debtors prison.

Besides, if twigs like Pliny, Gwenith and Pi can win, who can't?

All but two people from Four who went into the arena, that's who. But Tide need only think of what happens to women in debtors prison and any feelings of unease are blocked out. Between being violated in a jail cell and suffering in an arena where she might have a way out of this mess she'll pick the latter, please and thank you.

* * *

The night before the reaping she's interrupted midway through her cardio and dumbbell workout routine by Peacekeepers storming the boat. If she had been a second or two slower in hiding her dumbbells her illegal training for the Hunger Games would've been exposed.

She doesn't question the rare surge of luck she has been given.

Her luck is gone moments later when the worst of the people she owes money to, Sharky Huxley, reveals himself. He demands his money within a week or he'll have his men beat her every day until she pays him or goes to jail

For a man like him it's not hard for him to pay off a few Peacekeepers to carry out his threats. Money is money and enough of it can buy the temporary assistance of Peacekeepers.

"I'll have it soon, I swear," Tide tries to stand up tall, easy for a girl measured as being six foot two inches. It does nothing to deter Sharky. "I can pay you back with a little extra, just give me a few days, please!"

"How about we roll for it?" Sharky says, taking out a die. "Guess right and you have two weeks. Guess wrong and you have a day. Refuse to guess and it's a week. Your choice."

"Five!" Tide blurts it out before she can even think of resisting the bait.

The dice is rolled and comes up as a one. Shaky just chuckles, giving the command to his men without hesitation.

He leaves the boat, indifferent to the screams behind him. Either he gets his money or sends a message to anybody else who owes him cash; either way it goes, he wins.

Tide staggers around, wrapping a bandage around her bruised arm. She curses Sharky's name, all the more committed to her decision.

"Four is getting a new Victor this year," she says, spitting out a few drops of blood. "Count on it."

It's lucky that she had some healing cream left over from her last successful bet two months ago. At least it means she can have her bruises gone before the reaping arrives.

* * *

When Tide makes her way to the reaping for the Twenty Third Hunger Games she only has two things on her mind. Naturally, the first is how she'll be volunteering for the Games and will be on the tribute train within the next hour.

The second thought is that she has a chance to make some fast cash while she waits for the ceremony to begin.

"I bet ten caps somebody is gonna volunteer. A girl over fifteen," she says to those standing around her in the seventeen year old females section.

"No way," one of the other girls says with a shake of her head. "Nobody would have the fishbones for it."

The crowd all echo the girl's sentiment. When Tide suggests they make a bet of caps on it they all agree, betting anywhere from one to five caps each. Tide just smirks, betting five caps she does not actually have that somebody will.

When the escort- this year dressed like some kind of avacado with dragon wings – calls out for a girl by the name of 'Ocean Noor' it becomes clear to the other girls that they were scammed. Tide calls out that she wants to volunteer and, after collecting several caps from the annoyed girls who can leave without a trip to the arena, makes her way to the stage.

The District can only stare at Tide, whether in anger at being scammed or surprised at the fact she willingly entered this death game, with no real reaction following the reaping of a stocky fourteen year old, Skipper Lee, aside the sobbing of a family in the crowd.

Victors Museida and Mags feel rather conflicted at the sight of the female tribute as she wives a wave to the cameras before shaking Skipper's hand. On the one hand she looks strong and could give District Four a real chance at winning.

On the other hand, _why_ did she enter this sick murder game!?

* * *

Tide lays out her reasoning for her choice that night, between fast and greedy bites of the fine glazed ribs that are among the many dishes being served.

"Money," she says, pausing to take a deep gulp of cola.

"...That's it?" Museida asks, sounding more than a little disgusted. "You signed up for money?"

"I've thought it all out, sir," Tide assures him, putting on the charm. "I've been training myself up for over three years at this point. I've got a chance."

"So you're a Career?" Museida asks. "You sicken me, just making that part clear. Mags, you can have the girl. I'll take Skipper."

If Tide is bothered by Museida's hostile reaction she does not show it. She merely says she is fine for Mags to be the one coaching her and resumes eating the ribs. It's fast becoming a new addiction of hers, one perhaps less dangerous than gambling.

Mags is better at holding judgement than Museida is, she always has been. That's why she's able to get more out of Tide than anybody else would've been able to. It's later at night when she spots Tide making a bet with the escort – 'I bet I can land the first kill, one hundred caps. Wanna play?' - that she talks to her tribute and asks if it truly was greed alone that made her make such a dangerous decision.

"Not exactly," Tide says, sitting on the sofa near the TV. "I've got a thing thing about gambling... I love it. I need it. I keep gambling and betting and... well, I owe money to a lot of people and if I can't pay it back I go to debtors prison."

Mags frowns, knowing of the stories and screams that come from that dreadful place. She puts a hand on Tide's shoulder, waiting for her to continue.

"If I win, no more debts and I can live the life of complete luxury," Tide says, relaxing. "It's a gamble... but I see it as an opportunity. One that's always there, waiting for those brave enough to take it. Between this and debtors prison, I felt the choice was obvious."

Tide changes the topic after that, offering Mags a bet on which tribute will be the first one to die. Mags turns the offer down, feeling such bets are just plain wrong, but she has to admit that there is more to her tribute than she had assumed.

* * *

Museida instructs Skipper to learn everything he can about survival skills, using a trident and medical skills. Keeping out of the way in the early days will be his best chance, a fact Skipper doesn't argue.

Mags, meanwhile, tells Tide to focus on brute force and weapon skills. If she's going to get into the Career pack she needs to be strong and get their attention onto how she can fight on their side.

"It's all about making them see you as an asset to their little army," she explains, not quite able to look Tide in the eye. "If you want to be a Career, you need to be tough like one."

"Bet you I can, and by lunchtime at that," Tide replies as she heads for the elevator to start training.

With her decent amount of pre-Games training Tide stands out as one of the strongest tributes of the year from a first glance. Not quite level with the Ones and Twos, but easily amongst the top eight. When she grabs a trident and gets to work on the dummies it becomes obvious she's actually among the top six.

Dream and Allure are both impressed by what they see of the girl from the Fishing District, but this year it's Mordecai from Two who leads the pack. A mighty brute, it falls to him to decide if the fisher girl gets let in.

Upon seeing Tide skewer her trident right through the dummy in one clean strike he nods his head, telling his District Partner Minerva to invite Tide to sit with them at lunch.

The Career Pack goes from four members to five shortly after the meal begins, Tide falling in with her new allies easily. They laugh, joke around and discuss a few plans for the battles ahead. Overall, it's a pleasant meal for the pack and they head off to spend the afternoon training together and putting on the intimidation against several of the Outliers, taking the job in shifts.

Tide sucks it up and makes sure to scare the fat girl from Eight, knowing only one can live and that taking part in these sorts of Career traditions will only secure her place in the pack. Of course, she makes sure to do things her own, personal way. Tide's many things, but a cliché isn't one of them.

"Wanna make a bet?" she asks the bigger girl. "I bet you'll die in the bloodbath. Wanna bet who ends up doing it?"

The big girl cries and scampers off soon after that. Tide never gets her name – Mavis Williams – and tries to push out the uneasy feeling in her gut as she returns to her alliance, all of them cheering and patting her on the back.

She tells herself she made the right choice and that people have done worse; she even bets people have. It doesn't matter, surely. Survival instinct is why she's not sorry, isn't it?

* * *

She earns a score of eight from training. Very high amongst the Outliers, but lower than the four Careers who score nines and tens. While her spot in the pack is cemented at this point, it seems that Mordecai is having doubts about letting her remain in the pack. His standards are high, very high indeed.

But Tide is a gambler, born and bred, and so takes the plunge to make a bet that keeps the Career boy interested in having her on his side, for now.

"Bet you I can kill at least two people in the bloodbath," she says as the tributes are lined up backstage for the interviews.

"You're on," Mordecai says, shaking on the bet. "But don't kill steal. If you try and rob me of somebody I've already started on we're gonna be having issues."

"As if I'd be so lame," Tide scoffs, crossing her arms. "No, I'm gonna be the one responsible for both kills and, I'll raise the stakes a bit here, I'll get the first kill of the Games."

"You will, will you?" Mordecai clearly doubts it, but can't help admitting Tide has some warrior spirit in her. Maybe she's not an awful ally after all. "Fair enough then. Good luck."

As Mortimer starts the show and calls Allure to the stage it's clear that his health is ailing a bit, as is his hair. Nobody misses it, not even the tributes.

"So... what's up with him?" Tide asks, awkwardly. "...Any bets?"

"Ass cancer," Dream says, shaking his head in dismay.

"Ass cancer?!" Tide exclaimed, wide eyed.

"Yeah," Dream shudders. "It's when you have cancer in your ass."

"...Amazingly, I worked that part out," Tide says, gagging.

Tide's interviews goes off fine. As with Jack a few years ago her being a Volunteer from a non-Career District makes her notable and her story of being a gambling addict seeking a way out of debt is something that a lot of those within the Capitol can relate to. She finishes off by telling the audience to bet on her, the clear Victor, and leaves the stage to grand applause.

She's talked the talk, but can she walk the walk? That's the question everybody wants answered and the bets on the outcome are very much a fifty-fifty kind of situation.

* * *

Tide feels like her luck is finally starting to stay in her favour when she is launched into the arena and glances around at the terrain surrounding the Cornucopia. It's another abandoned city, but this one has quite the distinctive factor that sets it apart from the one in the dreadfully long Ninth Hunger Games.

It's flooded.

The buildings are old, worn and partially eroded from the constant exposure to the wet elements and all over are lakes and deep trenches of murky water. It'll be a year to favour those who can swim. Those like Tide, and perhaps Skipper. Even from the start of the countdown Tide can hear storm clouds distantly moving in, sure to bring vast amounts of rain with them.

But she can't focus on the water and what may lurk within it. Not when the countdown is almost up and she has a bet to win.

As the gong rings Tide lets her training and all the Career antics she has been exposed to fill up her mind and soul. Right as Skipper leaps off of his own pedestal and make a beeline for his ally, the girl from Eight, Tide grabs up the first weapon she can lay her hand on – a cleaver? It'll do. - and charges at the siblings from Three who were launched beside her.

It's no contest. The siblings are both older than Tide, but lack any training and are both quite skinny. Not even twenty seconds have passed before District Three has been eliminated, the pair laying still with their throats gushing blood onto the wet concrete.

The Gamemakers set off thunder and lightning as the opening melee continues, eager for more blood. They get what they want, thirteen tributes laying beaten and bloody upon the watery ground as the bloodbath ends five minutes later with the blood starting to spread wide over the area.

Tide pants for air, all tired out from the frenzy of action. She removes her current weapon, a trident, from what's left of the beefy girl from Six as her allies cheer and holler in triumph. Mordecai approaches her, wiping the blood of the boy from Seven off his shirt, and for a moment Tide wonders if he intends to betray her.

Instead he laughs, clapping her on the back with a smirk on his face.

"Looks like you win the bet," he says, very impressed. "Three kills and you landed the first two in the Games. Not bad, Tide. You sure are a Career."

Tide doesn't feel any shame this time to hear such comparisons. She just smiles and shakes Mordecai's hand with a smile on her face.

"Like I was telling you all along, you don't need to be from One or Two to count as a Career," she says, giving a wink. "...Bet you I can land the next kill."

"You're on," Mordecai says with a laugh. "We'll rest up, fix up any rounds, sort the supplies and get hunting. Whoever landed the least kills gets to be the guard."

"Dammit!" Dream yells in annoyance, having not killed a single tribute. Indeed, he ended up getting his hand stabbed when he tried to go for the girl from Eight.

* * *

The eleven tributes become ten during the second day when the pack come across the short girl from Twelve. She knows in an instant she is doomed, only able to control how she reacts in the face of certain death.

She chooses to jump to her doom before the Careers can get within killing range, letting the water carry her away to the world beyond. The cannon booms as the Careers reach the edge of the rocky ledge the girl had been backed into during the short chase, all of them disappointed or annoyed.

"Well that was a waste of time," Allure mutters, shaking her head. "Urgh, stupid."

"From her point of view it made sense," Tide adds.

"True. Eh, whatever, one closer to the end," Mordecai says with a shrug. "So, we gonna get going or try and grab whatever was in the bag she was holding."

"Bet you that Tide can't do it," Minerva adds.

The girl from Two intends to get Tide to jump in and drown to eliminate a threat, thinking that even a girl from Four cannot handle the flooded waters of the city, especially with the debris that float within them. But Tide, driven by pride and the hope of the bag having something decent inside it, takes the jump and swims after the corpse of the miner girl. Mordecai cheers for her, Minerva hopes she drowns quickly and Allure watches with a neutral look, just glad that some sort of excitement is going on.

The bag ends up being empty besides a ruined pack of soaked crackers, but it doesn't matter to Tide. She's just pleased that the leader of the Careers is impressed. The sponsors, too, are impressed and her reward is fine meal of ribs that night.

Dream, meanwhile, feels more and more bitter about being stuck at the Cornucopia and having to sit around in the rain as he guards the supplies. With his alliance still not back by the time day three turns into the earliest minutes of day four he decides, fuck this, and ditches the area to go it alone.

It makes it really easy for Skipper and his ally, Mavis, to raid the Cornucopia of its food and water. When the pack return at the close of day four they don't just feel angry.

They're pissed.

"Let's give dream a nightmare," Mordecai says, glowering.

"Right on," Tide agrees, more than a little pleased that Dream going rogue means she's got more time before the alliance turns on itself.

* * *

In a flooded arena, it's only natural that the floods get worse as the days go by. With the rainfall continuously falling it's not a matter of if it will get worse and merely a matter of when.

In this case, the 'when' happens on the sixth day of the Games when the pack takes out the brutish boy from Nine. He proves to be a savage opponent though, smashing Allure off of solid ground and down ten meters into the murky water. He dies, but he takes down Allure with him. By the time Tide jumps into the water and drags her out onto solid ground her cannon has fired.

Nobody ever taught the pretty Career how to swim.

"Seriously?" Mordecai can't help but facepalm, shaking his head in dismay. "A Career who cannot swim to save her life... literally? That's gotta be a new low for District One."

"You guys can?" Tide asks, curious.

"I grew up near a lake before I attended the academy so I know my way around the water," Mordecai says, nodding. "And Minerva here got taught to swim just like all the cadets at the academy do."

"Not as well as this brute," Minerva adds, dismayed. "But well enough. Better than fish legs here."

It's so wrong, so inappropriate, so mean and yet the trio cannot help laughing over Minerva's scathing remark over the corpse of Allure. They head away into the rain, searching for shelter as the hovercraft takes away the remains of one half of the District One team.

Tide isn't the only one in high spirits that day. After all, it's the day Skipper and Mavis share a kiss. They know it can't possibly last, but if time is limited what's the harm in making the best of their dire situation?

* * *

By the time eighth day of the Games roll by the number of remaining tributes falls to nine. Dream caught up with the girl from Five and showed no mercy. While he nurses the stab wound he received during the battle trouble begins to arise several miles away from his current location.

Minerva makes no secret of the fact she is not very fond of Tide. Meanwhile Tide mainly just ignores the girl from Two, seeing her as a minor annoyance when compared to the debt collectors back in Four. Mordecai finds himself stuck in the middle of a mainly one sided conflict, soon decided he doesn't give a shit. Why should he when he's not the main target of either girl?

It comes to a head when, during the latest additional flooding of the city, Tide makes a bet with Minerva.

"I bet you can't swim out to that rock and back," Tide says, smirking.

"You're on," Minerva says, wanting to prove a point. "You do it once I'm back."

"Child's play," Tide says, her smirk widening.

Minerva makes the swim and reaches the rock thirty meters out from the shore easily enough and promptly starts to return to her allies no worse for ware. Just as she assumed, swimming was not an issue for her.

On the other hand, the sharks swimming around in the depths of the flooded waters certainly are.

Her screams fill the arena as the sun sets, Mordecai and Tide unable to do anything but look on as she is torn to pieces by the hungry mutts. They exchange a glance, silently agreeing to leave the area fast.

They don't want to risk the chance of the shark mutts being able to jump onto land, after all.

* * *

The two Careers hunt side by side for several days, becoming fairly close friends in that time. Mordecai says how Tide isn't bad... for a Four, that is. Tide says that Mordecai is actually pretty civilised... for a Two, anyway. Both laugh, enjoying the company they share.

When only six tributes are still alive – Tide, Mordecai, Skipper, Mavis, Dream and a particularly elusive girl from Seven – the Gamemakers call for a Feast to be held at midnight by the Cornucopia on the sixteenth. Much of the arena is flooded, the tributes boxed in closely and so it's not hard for any of the tributes to make the journey to the Feast if they chose to.

All of the tributes besides the girl from Seven decide to take the chance.

Tide and Mordecai make it there first, of course, and as the other three run in things become quite a massacre. With Skipper and Mavis fighting side by side and Dream being solo yet competent it's not a fight that anybody is able to walk away from without some sorts of injury.

Mordecai and Dream clash, going blade to blade with full intensity. Sparks fly as their swords clang again and again. Both takes wounds, nobody knowing how the battle will end.

Tide goes for Skipper and Mavis. If she feels any hesitation for fighting the boy from her District she doesn't let it show. The younger pair only want to flee with what they have, but only one is allowed to live. Tide plans for the money and life of luxury to be hers. That's why only eighty five seconds into the fight Mavis is slain with a nasty stab from the trident, unable to even say goodbye to Skipper.

"You're a disgrace to Four," Skipper says, making his last stand. "All about the money with you. Money, money, money. You came here to kill people for _**money**_!"

"I have debts to repay!" Tide screams, dodging Skipper's attempt at a stab. "I need the riches to pay people back; that's not my fault, it's just how it is Skipper!"

"Whose fault is it that you're in so much debt?" the shorter boy replies, ducking under Tide's trident. "You have nobody to blame for your gambling debts besides yourself. You sold your humanity for cash. Winner or loser, that won't change."

Dream screams in agony as Mordecai, by now rather battered, gains advantage and slits his throat with his sword. It's not after that when Tide is able to land the killing blow on Skipper, letting him fall to the ground to die.

But he's not done yet, not when he has enough energy left to say one final thing to his District Partner.

"Even if you win... what makes you think you won't just make more bets you can't win and end up back in debt again...?" Skipper asks.

He gets no answer, his life fading moments later. Tide tries to stay stable, telling herself that Skipper was wrong and just trying to throw her off of her game to give himself a chance. She pushes the thoughts out of her mind, turning to look at Mordecai.

"Just one left to go," he says, panting. "We gonna fight or we gonna go look for her? Flood is gonna get higher soon, so she won't have many places to hide."

Tide takes one look at how Mordecai is fairly beaten and bloody. She decides to take the gamble of fighting the girl from Seven all alone and says they may as well get the inevitable over with as both of them would easily take the girl from Seven one on one. Mordecai agrees, his final words to Tide being that she was a good ally.

His final words of his life end up being 'aw fuck' two minutes later when Tide brings down her trident a few minutes later.

With all the supplies of the Feast being hers to use however she wants the Games are basically won at that point, anything thereafter being more of a formality than anything else. Sure enough, twenty hours later Tide hunts down the elusive girl from the Lumber District and hears the sound of the victory trumpets.

She cheers, her trident held up high in victory. Her debts can finally be paid and she can live the easy life for the rest of her days, what could be better?

* * *

It turns out, as years go by, that there is indeed one thing that could be better. Having any kind of freinds or interaction in her life besides the Career Victors from One and Two who she only sees when the Games arrive once again.

Nobody wants to be around the girl who trained for the Games, willingly entered and then killed people only to earn money. The fact that Tide's gambling kept on going, up to running a betting ring on the reapings of Four and the Games as a whole, made her a social outcast in Four. Skipper's family would only speak her name in contempt and a spit upon the ground. Even those who appreciated her strength and the riches she bought back to Four found the girl's greed a major issue to contend with.

That was how life went for Tide in the end. Surrounded by piles of money which had a habit of coming and going due to her obsession with gambling and having absolutely nobody to share it with. Even Mags didn't exactly hang out with the Career of Four particularly much, the betting ring Tide made on how quickly mags' niece would die in the Twenty Seventh Hunger Games being an action hard to forgive.

A greedy recluse at the reaping of the seventy Fourth Hunger Games, she watches the screen and lets out a tired chuckle.

"I bet that girl from Twelve will win this whole thing. One thousand caps."

* * *

"Twenty three years and still no Victors for Six or Ten. I guess some Districts have all the luck," Katniss said as she and Peeta slowly walked on from Tide's section of the side walk. "District Four certainly was one those that sure did early on."

"All comes down to how not all Districts are equal. They never were," Peeta replied, glancing up at the clouds. "Six only had their first Victor due to a complete accident, as we know."

"In a way, we were accidents too in a way," Katniss replied, letting out a breath. "Or maybe we just got lucky... guess whoever bet on us got a good pay out."

Peeta said nothing, just letting Katniss speak as they reached the twenty fourth face on the Walk of Victors. The somewhat chubby face of a rather cheerful looking young man looked back up at them, his hair cut short and a fairly big nose only beaten by his bigger smile.

"Crown Martins," Peeta read. "Last of the Victors before the Quarter Quell. End of an era."

* * *

There we go, Tide succeeds in her ultimate gamble and joins the ever growing Victor Family. I've always found Careers outside of D1 and D2 rather fun to think about (and given I go by the movie canon, D4 aren't typically a Career District) and really, if somebody can successfully train themselves up prior to the arena and volunteer for the sake of winning and not to spare a family member ect then I'd count them as a Career regardless. Perhaps not a happy story in the long term, but like most gambles it worked as a short term solution. Hope you guys found the gambler girl fun. :) Stay tuned for more!

* * *

 **Stats**

 **District 1:** Peridot Gaudy (8th Games), Crystal McCree (14th Games), Bronze Marley (19th Games)

 **District 2:** Baron Overwhill (4th Games), Runa Peace (7th Games), Olga Machete (10th Games), Rook Valiant (17th Games), Boulder Atherston (20th Games)

 **District 3:** Honorius Perthshire (5th Games), Pi Orbit (22nd Games)

 **District 4:** Museida Selkirk (3rd Games), Mags Flanagan (11th Games), Tide Luther (23rd Games)

 **District 5:** Shunt Gaspar (12th Games), Isobel Sparks (18th Games)

 **District 6:** N/A

 **District 7:** Pliny Aransio (2nd Games), Fir Buzz (9th Games), Jack Tylos (21st Games)

 **District 8:** Woof Casino (16th Games)

 **District 9:** Mizar Aldjoy (1st Games), Gwenith Rosebud (13th Games)

 **District 10:** N/A

 **District 11:** Bear Redfoot (15th Games)

 **District 12:** Duke Saint-Rose (6th Games)


	25. Crown Martins

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Hunger Games. They belong to Suzanne Collins.

 **Note:** No sense slowing down when the first Quarter Quell is right around the corner. It's a milestone I've been really wanting to reach and by all accounts I should be able to reach it very soon, especially given my update speed recently. But first, the final pre-Quell Victor, Crown! Remember how it was mentioned in Crystal's Games that D1 only started having back-up Volunteers every year after the first Quell? Yeah, this guy is exactly why they do. Enjoy!

* * *

Katniss and Peeta looked over Crown's imprinted face upon the side walk, thoughtful.

"So, know anything about Crown?" Katniss asked after a few moments of respectful silence. "I'm going to assume that, being from One, he was a Career?"

"Well, you'd think that wouldn't you? I don't know much about him personally, besides the fact apparently he had the lowest training score of any Victor from One, but my parents knew about him," Peeta said, looking almost nostalgic. "Their parents did too."

"What did they know? The kills he made and how gruesome they were?" Katniss guessed.

"Not quite. Apparently he was actually in the business of candy making and only become a tribute as the chosen Career chickened out," Peeta said, slowly shaking his head. "Crazy, huh?"

"...Yeah, that's about as far from a Victor from One as I would expect," Katniss remarked, looking rather confused.

* * *

 **24th Annual Hunger Games**

 **Name:** Crown Martins

 **Gender:** Male

 **District:** 1

 **Age:** 18

 **Kills:** 2

* * *

Peridot first meets him while out on the town on a warm Saturday afternoon. It's just after her trip to the local comic book emporium – she does _not_ think the clerk there is cute and wants Crystal to quit asking! - when she feels the urge to buy something sweet to sink her teeth into.

She walks into a rather fancy looking candy store, The Candy Crown, and approaches the counter to ask what sorts of gummies they have.

That's when it becomes impossible for her to ever forget Crown Martins.

"We have quite a lot of gummies in stock and like you are totally gonna love them ever so much I mean really it's like no contest that we've got the best gummies in One with all of them handmade by me actually. We have gummy snakes, gummy worms, gummy elephants, gummy tributes, gummy Orions, nutty gummies, fruity gummies, soda gummies and for the strange folk who have cash and don't need questioning we've got a wide array of blood gummies raging from prices of one cap to ten caps though for a refined lady like you I'd imagine something like mint gummies are more your thing you know?" Crown babbles on and on without even pausing to take a breath.

Peridot doesn't get a word in edgeways, sideways or anyways at all. She's left with her head spinning and her ears abuzz with a faint aching. She asks for one of everything in the hopes it'll keep Crown silent for a while, as surely that many gummies will take time to pack up.

Too bad for the first Victor that District One ever had, she's very much mistaken. Crown works fast, chattering the whole time.

"You know your Games are some of the earliest memories I have as a matter of fact and I was rooting for you all the way because obviously you were going to win from the start like duh because Cadbury was an idiot to leave you all alone to plan a counter attack and holy shit Miss Gaudy I'm honestly awed that you killed him how you did like it was amazing you know you were a badass and I'm proud to be from the same District as you and that'll be one hundred caps please," Crown stops abruptly, placing down the sealed box of gummies and activates the cash register.

The guy may be friendly and have given her some nice praise, but Peridot is glad to be able to leave the store and get away from his endless talking. Even Crystal at her most cheeky isn't that bad! Peridot soon relaxes, figuring she'll never see the young man again anyway.

She's wrong.

* * *

Crystal first meets him when Gaudy High is having an open day, much like those she attended as a youth before she entered the arena. The day starts off like any other, Crystal and Harp working together to greet people as they arrive to take a look around the historic building where Careers are trained and watch people take part in various free training exercises throughout the day.

The pair take a break on a bench, content to just relax in their quiet spot and enjoy each other's company. It's only a moment later that any chance of peace and quiet is destroyed.

That's when Crown arrives, pushing along a large cart of candy. He has all the official paperwork sorted out and a license to show off, so there's nothing stopping him from selling his goods around Gaudy High. It's not a problem.

Well, it wouldn't be if not for how loud he is and how his talking his near endless. It's not long before Crystal fears she may need the defibrillators again and Harp mumbles in distress from the loud noise.

"Step right up and come get your hands on some great snacks to help you relax and feel good after a long day of training like really why wouldn't you want to sink your teeth into chocolate and gummies and reasonably priced toffee bars of which we have hundreds that you're all going to want to buy as for today only everything is half priced so come on over and take your pick from the hundreds of delicious snacks on offer though please form an orderly line as rioting helps literally nobody!" Crown speaks like a video tape on fast forward, not even pausing for breath a single time.

As out of place as he looks at Gaudy High the fact is he clearly knows what he is doing; it's only a few moments before a loud crowd of patrons are running over to check out his candy stall and practically forcing money into the tall young man's hands when they find something they want.

Crystal and Harp quickly leave the area after that, neither able to handle the sheer volume and constant amount of chatter going on. The noise and Crown's non-stop talking rings in their ears for over half an hour, even once they've managed to find a quiet place to sit together on a distant hilltop.

"He's so loud," Harp groans, her hands over her ears. "Needs to shut up sometime."

"I know, right?" Crystals agrees with a weary groan. "But you know, those sweets sure did look good... wanna go buy some when the crowd thins out?"

Harp's eager smile says it all. Crystal figures that they can handle going back later and checking over what snacks remain. After that, it's unlikely they'll see the boy again and be subjected to the same level of noise that follows him around.

She's wrong.

* * *

Bronze first meets him on reaping day, the starting event of the Twenty Fourth Annual Hunger Games. The cocky, arrogant young man relaxes in his seat on the stage as he waves smugly to the cameras. When put against snooty Peridot and immature Crystal he knows he's the best Victor by default. The Capitol sure love him, always eager to take a photo with him any time he takes a trip to the fancy city.

He never minds posing for the camera with his fans. Who would he be to say no to some sheer flattery? It helps being the Capitol favourite; it lets him enjoy his status to the fullest and all the benefits it allows him to make use of.

Like any sort of charges against him from that girl he took off the streets and into a hotel a month or two ago being dropped hardly a day after they were made. Bronze chuckles, loving the life of a celebrity.

Perhaps this year he'll get some decent company in the Victor Village. The girls he invites over are hot, sure, but it'd be nice to have a bro to act as a wingman. Perhaps as a flunky. Anybody, really, besides the huffy Gaudy girl and the one who has at least two heart attacks every quarter year.

Bronze adjusts his shades, smirking. He knows the boy who is going to volunteer this year and has already laid a personal claim to mentor the male tribute, paperwork and all. With how Kingsley Hark is sporty, a ladies man, pretty ripped in his appearance and a self-admitted fanboy of Bronze what more could he ask for in a tribute and future neighbour?

Bronze doesn't say anything nor react when the girl volunteers for this year of the Hunger Games. He spares her a glance – hot as always, but not really his type. Too flat. - but just shrugs. The real Victor is about to show up.

The Escort reaps a boy by the name of Crown Martins and one look at the tall, somewhat overweight candy maker has Bronze disgusted. Exactly what he doesn't want in a tribute, let alone a citizen of District One. He flinches when Crown starts talking, rattling on for over a minute over how he's happy to have his minute in the spotlight and advertising his family candy store.

Bronze is thankful, _so thankful_ , when the Escort finally asks for a volunteer. He doesn't miss how the man dressed like a feathered elephant wants Crown gone as well.

...But nobody came.

Bronze barely has time to seethe and snarl over the fact Kingsley chickened out before the escort announces Crown as the official male tribute. As Peacekeepers take him and the girl inside the Judgement Building he feels like he is going to enter an outright fit.

"Well, have fun mentoring Crown," Peridot says with a smirk as she heads off to get on board the train.

Bronze barely contains himself long enough to storm away to an alley before having a meltdown. He thinks, mercifully, Crown will die very fast and be out of his hair.

He's wrong.

* * *

Crown never wanted to enter the Hunger Games and never trained for them. What use would he, a candy maker, have for all the gross and morbid blood and fighting? Made no sense to him, so he just kept it at the back of his mind and focused on his work. What is there to fear when somebody always volunteers these days?

Well, with the volunteer wimping out and there being no back-up this year keeping it out of sight and mind is no longer an option for the heavyset candy maker.

He keeps to himself for a while, just enjoying the luxury of the train and letting himself unwind from the rather emotional goodbye in the Judgement Building to his family before he settles down to get to work.

If he's here, then he may as well get stuck in and try to win.

At dinner, shortly after watching the reaping recaps, he speaks up to the rest of the District One team while buttering some fine bread and coating it with raspberry jam.

"So what's the plan for the Games guys like I assume the pack will be a thing as it always is but this year I don't see the Fours being accepted into the fold but I guess having just us and the Twos works well enough but what do we do beyond that I mean is it just training hard and fighting or are we gonna-."

"Shut up!" Bronze roars, slamming his fists down on the table, hissing like a snake.

Crown does, being no stranger to receiving that exact command on a regular basis. So, politely, he gestures for Bronze to keep going.

"You're not meant to be here. You're only here because Kingsley was too cowardly to volunteer," Bronze says, pouring himself out a drink of strong wine. "As far as I am concerned, you're not a tribute. You're not my tribute. You're not even here. You're not going to be in the pack, you're just gonna die on day one and damage our record. I have nothing else to say."

Bronze gets up and storms off, disgusted. Crown looks hurt, if only for a moment.

"Ok but is the pack really so vitally important because like you killed half of your year's pack before the second day was over out of petty jealous and like never really did anything with the girl at all so maybe I do actually have a chance because if you can win more or less alone why not me like am I really as weak as Gwenith c'mon I know I can score at least a four and she only got a two Bronze so please have a heart maybe?"

Bronze just shoves his hands over his ears, slamming the door of the carriage behind him without another word. Crown tries listing his skills – baking, keeping to a strict schedule, lifting heavy sacks of flour and sugar, smacking pests with a frying pan - to Peridot and Tiff – the female tribute – but it's clear they're having none of it. Peridot is pragmatic minded, always one to put stock into the most likely Victor and Tiff outright says she doesn't like sugar and that Crown talks too much.

"My advice, just run away," Peridot says, calm and cool. "Only chance you have."

"Or you know maybe I can find my own alliance and then we'll see who is really the Victor here," Crown replies, chuckling. "You do it your way and I'll do things my way and then Bronze can just I don't know get drunk and drugged in an alley somewhere I mean we all know he does right?"

Crown's only response is a chuckle from Peridot, nothing more. It's not long before everybody starts to turn into bed, aside Bronze who throws a massive fit in his room and Crown who stays up late to watch a cooking show.

That's the cover story anyway. He actually watches the reaping recaps with a bowl of toffee popcorn, trying to pick out the hungriest tributes and thus who will accept him an an ally chef.

District Twelve is the obvious choice.

* * *

With Crown shunted out of the Career pack a spot opens up for some lucky Outlier to take his place. It naturally creates plenty of competition amongst tributes, both in the parade and at the training centre. With the pair from Four on the shrimpy side this year the candidates for the slot become the huge boy from Five and the convict girl from Ten. The pair fight and argue viciously for their spot in the pack, while the three Careers laugh and simply watch the show.

Crown pays none of it any mind. He's keen to play things his own way, not the District One way. It's clear, not being a Career, the normal way his District plays the Games is simply not going to work.

But all Crown has to do is think back to how Bronze won his Games and decide that he's fine with this. He doesn't bother with the sword or spear training stations, instead paying very close attention to the edible plants and animals training station. Fire starting follows soon after, same with finding water. The stuff Careers would normally sneer at, having no need for any of it when the Cornucopia and sponsors can tend to all of their needs.

Crown doesn't just listen, he asks plenty of questions to the training staff with a notebook and pencil in hand.

"So if I end up in a desert would cacti be an edible kind of food because like I don't want to bloody my mouth up as that may end up just making me die faster than outright starvation would though maybe if it had no thorns I'd be fine maybe-maybe though actually do cacti ever come without the thorns or am I crazy but anyway I'm hoping for another forest with fruit that's not poisonous as I'm kinda gonna just cook my way to a victory and that's easier in an arena with natural food supplies because who is gonna sponsors a chubby candy maker like me beside people addicted to sugar but actually I think a lot of the Capitol are so I may have a chance what do you think?" Crown rambles on and on per the norm, never stopping for breath and always keeping a sincerely interested look in his green eyes.

The trainer trembles and twitches, grinding her teeth and pulling at her hair. The big boy from One is close to driving her absolutely insane, all without even trying to for even a moment. The only thing that stops her from fleeing is how her contract forbids her to leave her training station until her lunch break, regardless of what the reason might be.

It's to her relief that Crown leaves to check out the knife training station ten minutes later, eager to inquire about how effective the knives at the Cornucopia would be for cooking meat.

By the time lunch arrives several of the trainers are well and truly pissed off, all twitching and practically frothing at the mouth as Crown's voice rings in their ears, never quite leaving their minds.

A first for a District One tribute, Crown doesn't sit with his District Partner at lunch. Indeed, he doesn't sit with any members of the pack. Instead, he cheerfully sits down with the gloomy, skinny pair from District Twelve and asks if they'd like him to make them some fine candy pops.

* * *

The Career alliance ends up expanding to a total of five members, the trio deciding that they'd have an easier time by just going all out and letting both of the competing Outliers into their alliance this time. There are three of them and two of the others, and even then Braxxer from Five and Lamb from Ten hate each other. Little chance of it backfiring.

Crown, meanwhile, succeeds in creating his own alliance. A combination that had not been seen before his Games or a single time ever after, District One and Twelve had formed an alliance for the arena.

An alliance where candy making is first and central.

It's not hard, really, to come down at night with the intent of seeing if the rumours of the training centre being left open are true – they are – and it's easier still to sneak into the kitchen of the training centre.

From there Crown teaches the pair from Twelve, fourteen year old Cress and fifteen year old Remi – how to make toffee apples. The miners are entranced, amazed at what their ally shows them. He's nothing like the Ones they have seen in the Games growing up, always sadistic and cruel.

He's fun. He's nice.

And he makes a _damn_ fine toffee apple. The security crew watch the whole thing on cameras and, sure, they could rush in any time to restrain the tributes and then tie them to their beds quick as a flash.

But they don't, as even _they_ are amazed at the sheer skill and passion that Crown puts into the cooking lesson.

"Shame he's gonna die," one of the guards remarks. "Those toffee apples look amazing."

* * *

The interviews were a terribly painful experience for Mortimer, weaker by the day from ass cancer.

"I've loved being able to see the Capitol and try out some of the food here as you guys make some amazing stuff whether it's candy plums or fancy ribs or maybe even the solid gold cake that nearly but not quite broke a tooth in this jaw of mine which actually reminds me of a funny little thing I heard in training see the brutes from Two always kill the people from Six and their girl said she'd break the jaw of the girl from Six so like I think the girl should just run though I wish I knew her name but I honestly forgot what it was because after I saw that I scored a three I went to eat cookies and only saw the Twelves when I came back and by the way the miners are really nice people I mean seriously I'm glad to have met them since my District kinda doesn't like poor people which is dumb because Cress and Remi are really cool like guys they taught me what hopscotch is and I love it but anyway that actually reminds me of a quirky little anecdote from when I was six and this guy who might have been a werewolf or perhaps just a furry entered the candy store and asked for blood gummies and like well what crazy person refuses a werewolf or a customer right?"

A very painful experience indeed!

* * *

When the tributes are launched into the arena of the Twenty Fourth Hunger Games the first thing Crown does is let out a somewhat disappointed sigh.

He'd really been hoping for a forest of some kind, or even some kind of cave.

The hot sun beams down from overhead and the terrain is rocky and red as far as the eye can see. Where the ground isn't an angry red colour it's coated in dry bushes and a few cacti scattered sparsely here and there. All this, the distant rocky mountains and the probably lethal kangaroo mutts that hop around far away make it one arena that'd have no issues festering in the nightmares of District children.

Crown just sighs, feeling that suddenly it's gonna be harder to cook his way towards winning. But all the same he gets ready to make the run, always willing to do his best.

The only mercy he has from the pack is that Tiff has claimed she will not go for him in the bloodbath, though with four other Careers to worry over it's a small mercy at best. Part of Crown just wants to leg it like his allies probably will.

Part of him thinks running off into the arena without at least a pan, some flour and a bag of sugar is pure and utter madness.

The gong rings and suddenly the bloodbath itself is the source of madness, not the thought of running off without cooking supplies. Tiff keeps to word, ignoring her easy chance to stab Crown and instead stalking aggressively after the girl from Nine, a small girl who bravely tries duelling Tiff with a knife.

Crown tries not to pay attention to the screams and dying cries around him as he thunders along the rocky red ground towards the Cornucopia. He keeps his eyes right on the prize; a large backpack that has a frying pan hooked into the side. Clearly, it's meant for him.

Reaching it is the easy part, both knives thrown his way missing due to the boy from Eight hardly being what one could call an expert at throwing them. The hard part is getting back out when the crowd of Outliers is starting to thin out, whether they're running off into the distance like the girl from Seven or laying dead on the red ground like the gutted kids from Three.

The Careers turn their attention to himself and the boy from Ten. Crown and the lanky ranch hand meet eyes, knowing their best chance to live is to work together in their escape. Crown grabs two sacks of flour and tosses one to the boy from Ten, giving him a firm nod.

"Flour power, now! Now, now, now!" Crown shouts.

One moment the four Careers, with Tiff hanging back, are moving in to land their next pair of gruesome kills. The next moment the bags of flour have been opened and cast down, a pair of massive flour clouds filling the air. The blinding, thick blast makes it impossible for the Careers to see a thing and easy for Crown and the boy from Ten to run off in separate directions, dodging the Careers as they wildly swing their blades in hopes of hitting their targets.

A body hits the ground in a slump but when the cloud of flour finally settles it becomes clear that their prey have escaped and that one of the Careers, they don't know who, accidentally killed Braxxer.

Crown doesn't look back, instead panting as he runs through the open outback covered from head to toe in thick layers of flower. From a distance it's almost like a ghost is dashing through the land down under.

* * *

It's during the morning when Crown manages to find his allies from Twelve, or more accurately they find him. One moment he's frying up some cassowary eggs on a fire pit using the frying pan and the next moment his allies have stumbled over towards him, both hungry and thirsty due to having both ran away from the Cornucopia from the opening second.

Hungry as he is, Crown sees his allies are much hungrier and so he willingly let them eat the eggs and shares out some water. To the starving youths of District Twelve the idea of a generous tribute from One is mind boggling, but food is food and who would they be to question it?

"So what's the plan?" Cress eventually asks as the trio sit at the base of a large, rocky mountain.

"I'd guess not dying," Remi says, hunched up and afraid. "Crown, your District normally does well... what do we do?"

In response Crown gives an apologetic shrug, knowing he doesn't have the answers that Remi wants to hear for even a moment.

"Well I'm not really a District One tribute in the traditional sense as like my mentor ditched me and none of the rest of the One team really cared about me so I'm kinda just making it all up as I go since I'd have to be mad to even try and do things like a career I mean I'm not really strong or deadly and mainly I'm just good at making candy so I guess the plan is to just make candy and hope the rest starve quicker than we do though after that happens who the heck knows you know?" Crown promptly stops talking, munching on one of the apples that were in his large backpack.

"So basically we just have to hope people don't find us?" Remi asks, gulping. She's grown used to Crown's way of talking already, but right now wishes she hadn't. It's bad news.

"If that's true then let's find a cave," Cress says, getting up. "Still twelve people out there, let's go."

Before Crown and Remi can get to their feet a cannon fires, impossible for anybody to miss. Silence reigns for several, tense seconds.

"Now I'm no expert at math or many things really besides making candy but that cannon would imply to me that despite your knowledge of counting you're actually at least more or less partially one hundred percent incorrect as that noisy cannon tells us that not only is the noise of it even worse in here than on TV but there are actually eleven people left out there but hey at least it's one step close to being done with all this right?" Crown wrings his hands as he glances around the outback. "Going with a gut feeling here and saying that maybe possibly perhaps the girl from Four died."

The Twelves don't respond, just giving a light nod each. Life's cheap in Panem and with every passing year things like innocent youths dying just a few miles away become less and less of a shock for them to deal with.

Crown is incorrect as well. It's the boy from Ten that the careers find, having managed to find his flour trail and narrow the gap. Four on one makes it no contest, just a slaughterfest.

* * *

By the time the sixth day of the Games roll by it becomes clear that this will be another longer year of the morbid death game, though many hope it won't be to the level of the Ninth Hunger Games. Whatever the length, twelve tributes are still alive and spread out across the arena. Most travel solo across the outback, with the two main alliances on opposite sides of the arena.

The Careers let their ally from Ten lead them along, the bandit girl claiming to be an expert at tracking and be close on the trail of another tribute.

Crown and the Twelves, fast becoming known as the 'cookie brigade', are over ten miles away as the Careers close in on the girl from Eleven. Having taken shelter from the hot sun in a nice, empty cave their morning is peaceful and slow.

But, as Crown is aware that a lack of activity is an invitation for Gamemaker punishments, he decides to fill up the morning in the best way he knows how.

Making some fine candy.

And so, after requesting some ingredients from sponsors – items that Bronze, like it or not, is required to send in – Crown gets to work and hosts his own Hunger Games Cooking Show to teach Panem how to bake honey fudge.

Despite the misery that the subtitle staff are put through in trying to keep up with what the motormouth is saying the show is deemed a complete success and has Crown very popular with the fans. Even his allies, while not really popular in and of themselves, are liked by simply associating with the rather non-traditional tribute from District One.

It becomes a daily segment of the Twenty Fourth Hunger Games and a rather beloved one at that. Crown would request ingredients and then the nation would watch him bake some new culinary wonder under the hot sun of the outback. And, without exception, he would always allow his starving allies to eat the results.

They'd never had enough to eat while he always had. He felt it was only fair.

It kept the audience and even a few Gamemakers rather entertained near effortlessly. Many of them felt it to be a shame that inevitably Crown would be slain, his culinary talents lost, as he just had no way to beat the Careers in a fair fight, let alone an unfair one, even with the death of Tiff caused by a rather nasty rockslide leaving the pack at three members instead of four.

Crown didn't think about it. Indeed, he had become quite lost within the craft he was so passionate about and practically forgotten the fact he was in the Hunger Games at all.

* * *

It was the morning of day ten when Crown had his first true test of his resolve. At this point ten tributes were still alive in the arena, admittedly soon to be nine due to how dehydrated the skinny girl from Four had been for some time, and Crown had been almost done with teaching his audience how to prepare a rather... special variety of candy pop.

"So once you have the mixture all solid and well formed it's really just a matter of letting it set properly for a while to ensure the ingredients have time to reach their maximum effectiveness though given how potent this sort of thing is it's probably a fair bet anybody who eats it will be really feeling it," Crown says, coming to the end of the cooking lesson.

Cress and Remi applaud, both quite impressed by the show they were attentively watching. Cress remarks, not quite jokingly, that he'd love to give one of the candy pops to the Head Peacekeeper in District Twelve.

A moment later an arrow whizzes through the air and strikes him for a lethal hit between the eyes.

"Yeah, got him!"

As Cress slumps over, his cannon firing, the terrified boy from One and girl from Twelve turn to see the three members of the Career pack coming their way, Felicia from Two having been the one to fire the killing arrow.

"Run! Like holy crap run for your life we gotta get out of here!" Crown rambles, almost spluttering in panic as he makes a run for it down a steep hill and away over the sunbaked plains of the outback.

Remi tries to follow him, she really does, but one wrong step has her falling down the hill where her arm is broken. It's not long after that when the Careers catch up to her, laughing in triumph as they cut her up with their swords.

"Aw yeah, that gave me a rush!" Felicia cheers, pausing to scoop up one of the candy pops that Crown left behind. "Aw look, they even left us some candy to celebrate eliminating a District within one minute."

"Shouldn't you fire an arrow at Crown while he's still in range," Heto suggests, pointing to Crown a fair distance away as he flees for his life.

"I don't mind tracking him down for us; he's not getting far," Lamb adds, shrugging.

"Eh, I've got him" Felicia says with a chuckle.

Felicia puts the candy pop to her mouth, sucking on it as she notches the arrow and begins to take careful aim at the fleeing candy maker.

That's when she spits the candy pop out, screaming bloody murder as she wails and roars in pure agony. Her mouth begins to outright melt away, something causing her flesh to be rapidly taken out and what she swallowed of the candy pop starting to do the same to her throat and some of her insides.

Candy pops are sweet, but acid pops are certainly not. Corrosive acid is never a safe substitute for honey, a fact Crown knew when he made the choice to cook some 'combat candy'.

Heto tries to look indifferent as his District Partner dies in the rocky dirt. Lamb actually does look indifferent, suggesting they make their way after Crown.

"Eh, let him go. Let's be real, dehydration or a mutt is gonna get him soon enough anyway," Heto says, shrugging. "You said you tracked the boy from Eight out here right? He scored a seven; he's more worth killing."

"Eh, sure, you're the boss. He's probably within a mile or two of this place," Lamb says, starting to search for tracks. "Gimme a few minutes."

The Career pair soon leave to search for Mod from Eight, leaving Crown free to run for his life and search for shelter. Heto is right about dehydration being an issue, as before long Crown is panting for air and utterly worn out.

Suddenly, he's unable to think of anything but being in the Hunger Games.

* * *

Four terrible days of constant sunshine, distant howls of coyotes and total isolation pass by, Crown being uncharacteristically silent throughout all of them. With the Sponsors eyeing the Career pair as the likely final two of the year Crown knows he's lucky to even be getting sponsored one bottle of water a day.

Of course, he was lucky enough that it was Felicia that ate the acid pop and that the Careers didn't bother chasing him. Otherwise he'd have ended up like Mod did two night ago or how Dolphin did three hours after the deaths of his miner allies.

Crown is keenly aware that being far from a typical District One tribute makes him not exactly worth hunting down as a threat, this being a major factor in being one of the last five tributes in the arena. Perhaps being weak isn't so bad.

Or maybe it is, as he'll have to win the final fight to go home. He's out of ingredients, almost out of water and has no weapons.

"Water please?" Crown asks, hopefully. "I'll teach you how to make candy water."

His semi-lie works, a water bottle falling down soon after. He takes three big, greedy gulps before wiping his mouth on his loose sleeve. He's lost a notable amount of weight in the Games, his outfit starting to not exactly fit him anymore.

"Add sugar to water and, boom, you've got candy water," Crown says, worn out. "Simple, easy, very basic stuff right there."

Eventually Crown removes his sweat drenched shirt, the damn thing too loose on him now to be anything but an annoyance. One snap of inspiration later and he has a rock wrapped within his shirt. A sort of makeshift set of bolas.

The weapon proves effective when a coyote mutt attempts to attack him as the sun sets, leaving him with several impressed viewers and a source of coyote meat to last him at least two days.

However, the girl from Eleven lacks any weaponry of her own and as such becomes easy prey for the deadly coyotes patrolling the outback, their hunger unquenchable.

* * *

While Crown attempts to climb halfway up a cliff wall to get some abandoned cassowary eggs to make into an omelette for breakfast on the seventeenth day, the Career pair split with a vicious fight following when Lamb tries to get a cheap stab against Heto when he's not looking. Both tributes live past the confrontation, mainly just left to nurse their scratches and cuts.

While Crown makes his fine omelette and Lamb starts to track down the girl from Nine, the one who miraculously escaped Tiff at the Cornucopia bloodbath over two weeks ago,

It's around ten minutes before the female tributes get into a fight that Heto spots a massive razorback, one that could feed over thirty families easily. The beast snarls to itself, unaware it has company.

A parachute falls with a special syringe and, one jab at the mutt later, Heto admits that the stories are officially true. Olga is the best mentor in Panem. She's gotten him a perfect mount to ride into the final battle and mark his name into legend with.

While Crown finishes his omelette and starts to ponder if any berries may be growing around to use for a fine dessert Heto spots Lamb. The bandit had managed to kill the girl from Nine without much bother, but one look at the Career upon the razorback has her running for her life.

She doesn't run fast enough to evade the razorback and is instead trampled to an agonising death.

Heto begins to search for his final opponent while Crown, tired and dazed from the sunshine, begins his search for berries to put into a pie.

* * *

The pair meet at sunrise over the outback on the eighteenth day. Crown walks into a large area of flat, rocky ground and some dormant, incredibly tough looking termite mounds in hopes of finding food. Not five minutes later Heto arrives with a triumphant grin on his face, ready to run down the big boy from One.

Crown's words are impossible to decipher as he flees in terror from the Career and the razorback, knowing it's a hopeless fight. The Gamemakers cut off all escape with a harmless force field, one that has Crown running swiftly to the left, faster than Heto can steer his mutt, and towards a termite mound where he tries to catch his breath.

"Nowhere to run One!" Heto calls, more amused than anything else.

Crown looks up as Heto rides the mutt towards him like a madman.

He leaps out of the way with hardly a second to spare, the mutt smashing into the termite mound and howling in pain as it bucks around. The bucking makes Heto almost lose his own balance and gives Crown time to move away, a plan entering his mind.

If he cannot fight the mutt, then he won't. He'll make the mutt knock itself out using the arena as a weapon.

"You gonna come at me Heto? Gonna try and kill me?" Crown calls, panting for air near another termite mound. "Are you are you are you are you are you are you?"

Heto yells, annoyed, making his mutt charge after Crown once again. This time Crown is ready and dodges with two seconds to spare. One again the mutt, now bloody and bruised, bucks wildly and almost throws Heto right off.

Heto has gotten wise to what Crown is doing by the third round of this, but that helps nothing when the mutt is angry and hard to steer properly. Sure enough, not even a minute later the mutt crashes, knocking itself out and sending Heto flying until he lands roughly on the rocks.

"Ten point landing that was or maybe just maybe an eleven to match your training score you know?" Crown chuckles, trying to mask his fear with laughter. He swings his makeshift bolas, ever so tense. "Let's see how you do in a fair fight, huh?"

Heto tries, he really does, but it's not a fair fight at all. Not when the fall he just took has sharp red rocks dug deeply into his left leg and his right hand fractured. With his ability to fight mostly gone only twenty seconds pass before Crown's shirt and rock combo smashes his head like a watermelon.

Exactly like a watermelon.

Peridot is stunned to see that her District has a new Victor but won't argue the fact One will be getting more food and money. She's content.

Crystal cheers, having grown to rather like Crown as the Games went by and becoming somewhat addicted to watching his cooking show. She's happy.

Bronze slams his fist upon the counter, snarling in contempt. It doesn't matter to him that he technically mentored a tribute to becoming a Victor. This creature is a disgrace and a complete embarrassment to his grand luxurious District. He's disgusted.

Crown just smiles tiredly, for once silent and rather uncertain. He took two lives and he can never change that, no matter how many apology cakes he bakes for the families of the dead. But he's alive and he didn't need any training for it. He's relieved.

* * *

The after events of the Games pass like a blur, much like Crown's talking. The Capitol are already training themselves to understand 'speed talk', not wanting to miss a word from their new Victor. Some call him really strange and a dismal showing from One. Some say he's a fresh face from the Luxury District, a new look of sorts, and that he made the Games memorable. Some just shrug and say a Victor is a Victor and that he's at least better than Pi was.

Bronze feels absolutely disgusted with how things have gone, wanting nothing to do with the new Victor who chats speedily with Capitol business investors and easily charms some investments from them towards his candy store. Even shouting at Pi, the broken Victor sobbing enough to cause a notable puddle on the floor, doesn't particularly make the feeling of disgust go away.

He orders a drink, ready to enjoy a pint of fine champagne and charm a girl into spending a night with him. Before long though he's approached by a young blonde man, perhaps a year or two older than he is.

"Let me guess, a fan?" Bronze asks, sitting up straighter.

"Who wouldn't be? You're one of the all time favourite Victors in the Capitol," the man says with a fond chuckle. "I should know. I bet on you."

"Smart man," Bronze says, smirking. "So, want a picture?"

"Doesn't everybody?" the young man asks. "Much better to have one with you than this year's Victor. I find myself disappointed and not just because I lost my bet. I mean... an overweight candy maker from One? Not that he's really big anymore, but what a disgrace. I'd expect that from Seven, not One."

"Tell me about it," Bronze said, gesturing for the man to sit with him. "So what's your story? Famous citizen I've never met? A relative of Orion's?"

"Nothing quite so grand. I'm one of the interns of the financial department of the Capitol. Money this, fetching coffee that. A thankless job; I'd rather just hit it big and enjoy the good life like you did," the man said, sighing as he ordered a drink of his own. "Here's to District One winning next year and hopefully getting a Victor that's halfway decent."

"I can drink to that," Bronze says, laughing as he clinks glasses with the man's own. "So, what was your name again?"

"Coriolanus Snow," the man said, sipping his drink. "But just call me Snow, really."

* * *

"Amazing really that One had a candy maker go into the arena. That'd never have happened in our lifetime," Katniss said as she and Peeta kept moving down the street. "I was more used to beautiful, deadly murderers."

"I guess times change and fads change... or, you know, became the standard," Peeta said, shuddering. "I try not to think of it anymore than I really have to. When your earliest memory is seeing a Career tear the head off a citizen from Twelve... yeah..."

The pair were silent as they came to a stop, looking down at the twenty fifth face imprinted upon the sidewalk. The face that looked back at them was of a handsome young man, practically dashing, with a valiant look to him and a short crew cut. He oozed toughness.

"The winner of the first Quarter Quell," Peeta remarked, softly. "Vercingetorix Carnby."

"Now there's a mouthful of a name," Katniss muttered.

* * *

There we have it, the 'embarrassment of District One' and chatterbox extraordinaire, Crown! For this one, I felt it would be interesting to have a boy from a career District win despite being literally the opposite of what somebody might expect from D1 in the Hunger Games. Without Careers being ready to volunteer it'd just be normal people going in and when it comes to normal citizens... sometimes they can be rather quirky. I found Crown to be rather fun and entertaining to write for, what with the chattering and stereotype breaking, but do you agree? Regardless, Snow has finally made an appearance and the dreaded Quarter Quell looms near...

* * *

 **Stats**

 **District 1:** Peridot Gaudy (8th Games), Crystal McCree (14th Games), Bronze Marley (19th Games), Crown Martins (24th Games)

 **District 2:** Baron Overwhill (4th Games), Runa Peace (7th Games), Olga Machete (10th Games), Rook Valiant (17th Games), Boulder Atherston (20th Games)

 **District 3:** Honorius Perthshire (5th Games), Pi Orbit (22nd Games)

 **District 4:** Museida Selkirk (3rd Games), Mags Flanagan (11th Games), Tide Luther (23rd Games)

 **District 5:** Shunt Gaspar (12th Games), Isobel Sparks (18th Games)

 **District 6:** N/A

 **District 7:** Pliny Aransio (2nd Games), Fir Buzz (9th Games), Jack Tylos (21st Games)

 **District 8:** Woof Casino (16th Games)

 **District 9:** Mizar Aldjoy (1st Games), Gwenith Rosebud (13th Games)

 **District 10:** N/A

 **District 11:** Bear Redfoot (15th Games)

 **District 12:** Duke Saint-Rose (6th Games)


	26. Vercingetorix Carnby

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Hunger Games. They belong to Suzanne Collins.

 **Note:** Here we are, the first Quarter Quell. I've been rather looking forward to this particular chapter for a while now. After all, a Quell is always a touch more brutal, insane and creatively speaking more fun than a typical chapter's Games would be. Given what the twist actually is and my logic regarding it (why the heck would you NOT get rid of horrible youth criminals harming innocent citizens?) this is possibly the most raw and grim one yet, or perhaps I'm just too close to my work to be objective. I guess we'll see, as there's no sense stalling. Enjoy the Quell, guys!

* * *

Katniss and Peeta were silent, a sense of unease between them as they looked at the face of Vercingetorix.

"Have you ever seen these games?" Peeta asked, a touch nervous.

"No. But I've heard the stories of what happened in the arena and how it was said to be five times more horrific than it normally was. I guess I shouldn't be surprised," Katniss said, shaking her head. "After what I heard of some of the tributes, like that monster from Eight, I don't mind the fact a Career won. Anybody but... people like _them_."

"It really flipped the formula of the Games," Peeta agreed, nodding his head ever so slowly. "Honestly, I feel terrible for the Careers who got put in this particular Hunger Games."

* * *

 **25** **th** **Annual Hunger Games: The 1** **st** **Quarter Quell**

 **Name:** Vercingetorix Carnby

 **Gender:** Male

 **District:** 2

 **Age:** 18

 **Kills:** 9

* * *

Nobody saw it coming.

A mandatory broadcast was announced, no excuses permitted for missing it aside from being dead. Even the citizens of the Capitol were not exempt from watching this particular broadcast. So, with quite the amount of uncertainty and unease the Capitol and Districts alike tune in several months after Crown's Victory Tour comes to an end.

It's the fifteenth of May, the exact day that the rebellion was officially defeated twenty five years ago.

Despite the passing of time Orion the tubby tyrant is still as cruel, vicious and intimidating as he was when he crushed the rebellion and started the Hunger Games. Despite his hair beginning to grey and him not being quite so lively as he was in his youth the tyrant has enough energy in him for this, the event he wouldn't miss for the world.

The event he has been patiently, cruelly waiting for over a quarter century. He's eagerly anticipated the despair of the bugs that think of themselves as 'people with feelings' in the Districts.

"Good afternoon Panem," he says, smug as a snake. "Today we celebrate twenty five years since the traitors were defeated and a new era of peace and prosperity was bought to our dear nation. I think you'll all notice the lack of war and mass death since then. But this isn't just a broadcast to remark on our nation being stable and to comment on how long that has been the case. This year... it's time for a special little twist I added to the Hunger Games once they were instated to our nation."

He paused, letting the suspense build up for twelve torturous seconds. One for each District of course.

"It's time for a Quarter Quell. Every twenty five years, the Hunger Games will be changed in some special way. What way, you may ask? Allow me to demonstrate it live for you all," Orion chuckles softly, taking a wooden box out from a draw of his desk and setting it upon the table in plain view of the camera. "Watch this."

Orion opened the box, a total of forty cards inside the box. Enough for a thousand years of cruel Hunger Games.

"One of these envelopes shall be opened every twenty five years based on the number written upon them. The Games that year will be made to reflect the rule change on the card," Orion looked absolutely vicious as he took out the first envelope, one marked with a number twenty five. "To demonstrate, as this year is the twenty fifth anniversary that the rebels were defeated, I'll be opening the first card and it will be put into action for this year's Hunger Games."

As the nation broke out into cheers within the Capitol and mostly wails of despair and agony outside of it, Orion opened the envelope.

He took out a single sheet of paper.

"On the twenty fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that their children are dying because of their choice to initiate violence, every District will be made to hold an election and vote on the tributes that shall represent it. There will be no Volunteers," Orion folds up the paper, puts the box away in his desk and gives the camera the most smug, lecherous, evil smile ever seen in Panem.

For a few moments nobody in Panem dares to breath.

"Voting stations will open tomorrow and remain open until the day before the next reaping," Orion said, relaxing in his chair. "Happy Hunger Games and may the odds be _ever_ in your favour."

The broadcast ends. Cue pandemonium.

* * *

The voting booths open up the next day, true to Orion's word, and every District seems to react to them in one of several ways. Arguably none of them are good, but then again... what is even slightly good when it comes to the Hunger Games?

District One do the sensible thing, in their eyes, and vote for the most deadly and beautiful tributes they have. Peridot is the first to vote, wanting to set an example for the District she loves so much, and Crown votes last of the entire District. He wants no part in it, voting for some random kids who, like himself, wouldn't be called pretty in One.

District Two see it as the honour of honours to be voted for such an event. Olga makes it clear and very firm that only the most strong and ferocious will be picked. No excuses whatsoever. It's barely a day before she's picked out two mighty prospects and warns that there will be consequences if the vote is not unanimous. Rook decides to fuck with her for a lark and votes for a wimpy pair of twelve year olds.

District Three has no plan, just voting for whoever feels like somebody the smart and efficient District can do without. In a terrible place like Panem they can't afford not to be pragmatic.

District Four try to gain a Victor and vote in tributes that are strong enough to seriously fight but not be mourned too badly if they die. A fair sort of trade.

District Five have plenty of hooligans to pick from who have caused dangerous trouble at the power plants and in the slums. It all comes down to who is the most unbearable.

District Six have given up on ever having a Victor and, intending to lose, vote away two horrific youths known for being murderers.

District Seven has had plenty of accidents in the lumber yards and several associated deaths. They know who to blame; the reaping is a formality.

District Eight finishes voting in a single day.

District Nine puts it all to chance, casting their votes at complete random. Mizar is relieved his little niece isn't in reaping age until next year.

District Ten don't take kindly to abuse of life, whether it's people or an animal. The girl is obvious and there are three vile candidates for the male that almost tie.

District Eleven have no shortage of troublesome gangs to pick from. Their vote is ridiculously spread out.

District Twelve has the seam band together against the merchants and vote in two well off teens. They make it fair and only vote for some local thugs.

* * *

When the screens in the mentoring room first show the arena of the Quell the only thing that Mizar can do is let out a soft curse. It only takes a single look for the original Victor of these sick Games to know this is sure to be the worst year yet, even worse than the year he was stuck inside one of these damn arenas.

It's a gigantic garbage dump, the one the Capitol sends its hundreds of tons of waste and excess from the spoiled, pampered lifestyle of those who live within its borders. It's a hellish landscape complete with piles of rubbish as tall as buildings, blazing orange bonfires that send smoke and ash sky high, pools of contaminated water and even a few sickening splattering of what looks like nauseating toxic waste.

The tributes rise into the arena and the expressions tend to be one of two types; excitement or mortal terror.

Mizar's own tribute is one of the latter, looking moments away from a heart attack. Mizar knows that feeling all too well. He feels terrible for the poor boy – he'll never be able to make clear just how glad he is that the boy and girl he actually voted for did not enter the arena – and hopes that maybe, just maybe, this year he can bring another one home.

But he's seen the way some of the other tributes, those... those _freaks_ have been acting. He heard the stories from the other Mentors. The thought makes him feel sick and pray for his poor boy.

Mizar glances around as the countdown gets closer to zero, taking a look at the other mentors. Gwenith sits beside him, her hands over her face as she trembles at the sight of the arena. Her own tribute is terrified as well. Bronze sits a distance away, pouring out wine as he watches the screens in a perverse sort of excitement. Olga watches with complete and utter focus, nothing capable of distracting her. Pi sits quietly, weakly sobbing and wishing she was in the arena as at least then she could die quickly.

On and on he looks until he glances at Duke, the poor guy looking like he's already given up on this being the year of Twelve's overdue second ever win.

"This is gonna suck," Mizar mutters.

He's right.

The gong rings and the tributes make the charge into the Cornucopia Bloodbath. Hardly anybody flees into the depths of the garbage dump, thinking of it as pure suicide to not have any equipment at all for the grisly Quell.

Mizar's boy, a small field worker only thirteen years old who got hit by the random voting Nine did, tries to grab up a few scraps from the outskirts of the fray and make a run for it before the Careers notice him.

The Careers don't, but the violent gang boy from Eleven does. All it takes is a few merciless punches and crushing stomp upon the boy's neck and he's dead, not even half a minute in.

Mizar doesn't even register the fact Gwenith is hugging her beloved Mentor and trying to comfort him. He's dull to everything right now, all too used to the horrible feeling of watching his tributes die because, surely, he made some critical mistake along the way and failed them when they needed him most.

* * *

Olga finds herself satisfied when the tribute she personally laid a claim to mentoring, Vercingetorix Carnby, is the first to the Cornucopia and grabs a sword out from the heart of the golden horn. With his muscles, fighting spirit, patriotism and sheer good looks he'll be a fine Victor for her District, especially for this momentous occasion.

"That's it, keep going," she tells the boy on the screen.

He isn't picky with his targets, simply making the rush at the closest unarmed target to him just as he was taught to. The girl from Eleven, as much a vicious thug as her District Partner, puts up a decent fight and doesn't go down in mere seconds like Olga expected. She hangs in there for a bit.

But fists cannot beat a sword and so before long she's been gutted and lays ever so still, her blood pooling out as Vercingetorix goes off to search for more kills.

"A true fighter and patriot, just like myself," Olga remarks, pouring herself a shot glass of vodka.

"I hope that means he's not got a stick up his ass too," Rook mutters, standing behind Olga.

Olga backhands him without turning her gaze away from the carnage unfolding on the screen.

* * *

Fir is normally the sort to laugh and smile her way through life, even in a dismal dystopia like Panem. Even after the tragic death of her adoptive father, Montgomery, she's still able to find some things to smile about. She knows it's what her beloved Peacekeeper father would have wanted her to be able to do and her love for him overtakes the feelings of gloom.

It's not always easy. It almost never is. But she still tries to smile because, well, somebody has to right? Jack, always blaming himself for what happened to Montgomery and the innocent children, is always there to help his mentor anytime it gets too much. Perhaps one day all will be well.

But not today.

Fir's tribute is a trouble maker at the lumber yards, really disruptive, cheeky and forever causing mischief on the job no matter how much she is reprimanded. It was all fun and games until her disruptions caused a pair of deaths on the job and landed her in the Games.

Fir knows she's not a bad girl, not really. Just stuck with a drunken mother and no other family with only poverty for company; of course she'd start lashing out after that. She never meant to really hurt anybody. Not once.

It was just a prank.

Fir feels her heart breaking when her girl is smashed to the ground with a hard hit from the club of the boy from One. He made it quick at least, moving on and leaving her to die.

Screw heartbreak, Fir screams in pure horror when she sees the repulsive girl from Ten slink up to her nearly dead tribute and sink her teeth into her neck.

Only Jack being there for her keeps her from falling into despair like she did only a few years ago.

* * *

Museida had a fighter this year. A gruff sailor with a bad attitude but a sense of honour and a fighting spirit that reminds the third Victor of himself a lot.

Perhaps more than a lot.

Museida tried his best to mentor him, but stay distant as well. Just his luck that they ended up hitting it off and becoming friends of sorts. Museida said he believed the boy had a solid change and the burly young man, Hook, believed him and said he'd do him proud.

Museida feels proud alright when his boy makes a charge for the sick bastard from Eight, but the hulking monster of a boy punches him back with a laugh... and just ignores him, heading off after the girl from One as she runs into the Cornucopia.

It's a nasty punch, but not a lethal one. That's why Hook gets back up again and grabs up a knife and a pack of supplies.

"Come on boy, get out of there," Museida mutters, using a rag to wipe away some of his sweat.

Hook tries and he almost makes it, but he doesn't get far before the boy from Five smacks him down with an iron rod.

He doesn't make it quick.

Museida curses, swearing like a sailor as the bastard from Five grabs up a container of fuel laying on the ground. It's barely five seconds before his tribute has been covered in kerosene and set ablaze by a lighter.

For the first time in many years Museida lets tears fall. It'd be impossible for him not to, after all.

Hook was the boy he voted for.

* * *

Captain Abe has been mentoring District Six tributes for twenty five years now and always will up to the day he dies or the day they get a Victor. Whichever comes first.

But as much as he'd like to see one of the kids come home for once he feels fine to mentor again next year if it means the two maniacs he's watching on the screen don't come back. They've caused more than enough trouble in Six for over two years now, having killed around five people together.

It's sick and he's starting to get a sense of why the people of Six don't really cheer over this grand event.

"Come on, take her down," he mutters, crossing his fingers.

Alas, it does no good at all. The girl from Six spots the girl from Twelve coming and that's when it's all over. No weapon from the horn of plenty is needed – just a shard of glass will do – as she tackles the miner girl and stabs her over thirty times in as many seconds. Nothing but mangled flesh and a pool of blood is left in her wake.

Abe hears Duke letting out a depressed sigh and feels pity for the sole Victor of District Twelve. This is hardly the most likely year for them to win.

Not that it's ever likely.

Speaking of unlikely, Abe finds himself rather stunned by what he suddenly sees happening on the screen. He mouths a curse word while Bronze and Boulder go a step further and swear in anger and horror respectively.

* * *

Bronze had a fighter this year, nothing like the absolute mistake who won the year before. He had it all planned out, all the girls and drinks that the cocky and party loving boy were going to enjoy, all of the luxury they'd indulge in at the expense of the animals in the Outlying Districts.

That goes out the window when his boy makes a charge at the small boy from Ten, laughing as he goes.

From out of nowhere the boy dodges to the side with refined reflexes and slashes the Career boy's leg. From there it's torture, both to watch and to experience.

The kid from Ten is clearly fucked up like his District Partner who feasts on what's left of the girl from Seven. He cuts open his boy, laughing at the screams and pleadings for mercy. It goes on and on until the boy from Two sees what has become of his ally.

The Ten boy flees from the dashing and valiant boy from Two, letting him quickly end the suffering of his own tribute. It's impossible to miss the look in Vercingetorix's eyes as he surveyed the area.

Pure fear.

"Fucking dammit!" Bronze slams his fist on the table, already getting up to leave. "If anybody needs me I'll be hitting the finest bar I can find in the Capitol with Snow, so don't need me."

"Six G's: Good Grief, Get a Goddamn Grip Girl," Crown mutters, shaking his head.

Nobody stops him as he leaves, none of the other Victors particularly liking Bronze. Not with the rumours that surround him, rumours of taking in unwilling girls off of the streets.

From the mentoring seat beside where Bronze had been stationed Crown starts to tremble, a hand to his chest as he watches his tribute barely manage to escape from the monster of District Eight, her clothing torn but her body underneath left unviolated.

Quite a rarity to see, he's speechless.

* * *

Boulder knew that this year was not going to be fun right from the moment it got announced and he was named by Olga as the mentor of the second tribute from their District. With Baron and Runa due to become parents any day now and Rook being essentially banned from Mentoring due to winning in a way Olga didn't like it made him the default choice.

In a normal year he thinks that he could've handled it.

But this isn't a normal year. This is just plain sick.

The murderers from Six laugh as they chase around the thug from Twelve, almost catching him several times. The boy from Ten, having hardly ever said a word, mutilates the corpses on the ground... the ones that the savage girl from Ten isn't starting to feast upon. The boy from Five is setting fires here and there to make escape difficult for those who remain. The girl from Eight grabs the tiny girl from Three from her hiding place within the Cornucopia, laughing as she drags her out into the open. The boy from Eight... Boulder doesn't want to think about the boy from Eight.

They're not the only twisted tributes this year but easily the worst of the lot.

Vercingetorix yells for his allies to run for their lives, to abandon everything and _**RUN**_. He and the girl from One flee away into the garbage filled nightmare, the girl from Two trying to keep up with them. She fails when the pair from Six cut her off from both sides, tackling her down.

Boulder throws up as the vicious Sixes cut his girl up from head to toe, leaving her oozing blood all over her once powerful body. On screen Vercingetorix screams, horrified, futilely calling for his fallen ally. The one he'd even trusted with his life, the feeling being mutual.

He grimaces, letting out a tear as he runs away after the shaking girl from One.

Boulder tags out with Rook, insisting that he needs to take a rest for a few hours and that somebody has to be there once Olga allows herself a few hours to sleep. Olga protests, but Boulder is already out of the door and making a beeline for the bathroom.

Bed can wait until after he throws up again.

"This is wrong, this is wrong," Boulder mutters, gagging between mouthfuls of vomit that he sends out.

* * *

Pi wails and screams, pleading the vile figures on the screen to leave her poor girl alone. Just to please, _please_ let her go and they'd never have to see her again. She begs and begs.

It does no good. It never does. Four of those demon children grab her girl by the limbs and pull as hard as they can. The agonised screams just make them laugh harder.

In one go all four limbs are torn off and her girl dies... after ten seconds of sheer, limbless torment. Pi breaks down pretty soon after, a broken mess of a person.

Pi plans to apologise to her tribute in person soon enough, to apologise for failing to be of any use to her at all. After all, the moment she gets the chance to act back in Three she's taking her own life. She can't go on.

Honorius may not be giving up on her even now, but it won't matter as she's long since given up on herself.

* * *

Duke just feels resigned to the inevitable as his boy is slashed by one of the killers from Six and then rammed hard by the boy from Five into the fire. It's horrible, it's nasty... it's just another way of dressing up what happens every single year at this point.

District Twelve cannot win, or at least they're seriously unlikely to ever do so. He won in a time before Olga, before she had such a stranglehold of power in the Games and made her District so formidable, with One following the same trend. With his own tributes often being starving kids from the Seam what chance is there?

Just as little as this year, the time where he had two of the only kids in Twelve who actually knew how to throw a solid punch.

In a smouldering inferno of fire Twelve is already eliminated. But even past the feelings of resignation and loss Duke has enough sense of self to feel another emotion.

A sense of foreboding. A premonition of something even worse than this.

Half of the pack were dead, the other two fleeing for their lives just like the Outliers that weren't quite as vile as those who remained at the Cornucopia this year.

Those sick little monsters just exchanged a few glances and words, soon shaking hands and agreeing to work as a team to have some serious fun in the arena. As they began to ready themselves for their first hunting trip Duke got up and left.

With his tributes dead he wasn't required to stay and frankly he had no intent of watching those maniacs tear people limb from limb. Not even Vercingetorix, who was doing his best to try and calm down Amethyst from One, the poor girl pale faced from what had nearly befell her.

* * *

Pliny was glad that, being the sleepyhead that she was, she wouldn't be awake to watch all of the carnage going on. If she slept through enough of this disgusting torture she might even be able to keep her sanity mostly in the healthy zone.

But when she wakes up and sees Amethyst having a complete and utter meltdown she can't hold in the tears of sympathy for the girl who took on way more than she could possibly handle. The tears flow thicker than she hears what Vercingetorix says to her.

"If it's just us left in the end... I'll concede victory to you. I think you should go home, not me. You know what I told you guys about in training, what I was like in the academy... I was a brute," Vercingetorix can only sigh. "I wish I could take it all back."

Amethyst weeps, holding her ally close with Vercingetorix doing the same. Just like that he's become her bodyguard and no longer cares about carving his name in Panem legend.

Pliny is in awe.

Crown is touched.

Olga is disgusted.

* * *

Bear really does not like mentoring.

He can't even talk about the Games for a minute before he locks up, shivering over the memories of what happened in his own arena several years ago. It was hands down the most awful, brutal humbling a man could have gotten and sometimes he's unsure if surviving that wheat filled arena is worth living with the feelings that come after.

Worst of all the feelings is the fact a lot of his District still hate him, wishing he been the one to die in that arena ten years ago. Bear doesn't blame them, knowing what kind of a beast he was before he resolved to change his ways before it was too late.

Sometimes he thinks it was too late all along.

He'd committed to using his so-called 'ill gotten fortune' to try and help the poor, protect those who couldn't fight for themselves and just make a difference. Something the little bastard that called itself his teenaged self would have never ever done.

Try as he might, he'd still failed at the most charitable action that he could think of. That being, of course, to bring home a Victor. Most of his tributes were either weak and scared, hated him for being the 'Bear of Eleven' or were thugs like he used to be and didn't bother listening to him.

The boy and girl this year were just like he used to be, perhaps even a bit more aggressive. Beat had wanted to talk some kind of sense into them, tell them how things truly are, do something to keep them going down a path like the one he used to walk.

They brazenly told him to fuck off.

But he hadn't stopped caring nor trying to secure sponsors for them. Although, it was hard to find people who'd spare more than pocket change for them, very hard indeed.

It did no good for the girl who got killed in the bloodbath and, now that the true reality of how depraved this Quell is has begun to show, Bear wonders if the girl had it better by dying so early into this thing.

The so-called psychopath alliance, made up of the seven evil maniacs, finds his boy at dawn on the second day.

The outcome is inevitable at that point.

The gang boy from Eleven gives it one hell of a fight and leaves the alliance with cuts and some bruises that will be in need of medical attention, especially to the girl from Six but the sheer number advantage of the pack dooms him. They cut off his hands and, while he's still conscious, throw him into a pool of highly corrosive water.

In the two minutes it takes for the boy to finally die Bear screams and swears himself hoarse until he's gasping for breath, ever breath he takes incredibly shaky. He's silent, merely trembling in a sort of broken fury, before a woman much smaller than his own hulking size gently hugs him from behind.

"You did your best," Gwenith quietly whispers.

Bear doesn't feel like he believes her, but he doesn't tell her to stop hugging him either. He'd admit that he always felt a soft spot for the Victor who preceded him by two years.

* * *

"Don't do it, it's not a golden opportunity. Run, abort."

Jack can only sigh as the third day of this shitshow rolls around, knowing that he's almost certain to lose his tribute in the next five minutes. A trouble maker lashing out at the world just like Fir's own tribute had been and one he'd been able to easily relate to when all was said and done.

Having been a thief himself, he knows that hunger fucks with your head and makes one do things they'd otherwise not do. Seems the boy was hungry enough to lash out and piss off enough people to 'win' the vote.

Jack sits beside Fir, having not left her side even once as she wept for the loss of her tribute. The roles are now reversed as Fir takes his hand gently, ready to bring out her tender, caring side the instant it's needed.

The boy had come across Vercingetorix not long before, the Career deciding to spare him upon seeing he was not one of the psychos and even had information on where the pack of maniacs were currently prowling. It was clear that the Career did not have his heart in it anymore.

But that was two hours ago and by now the pack are returning to the Cornucopia, the exact place that the thief boy is rushing towards to pillage it of all of its supplies. It's not long before he falls into one of the traps the savage girl from Ten set up and is left half-concussed in a moaning heap.

Jack can't hold back the tears as the psychopaths come back, nasty grins of perversion and sadism upon their nasty faces. Fir holds the young man close, letting him sob into her shoulder as she keeps her own gaze away from the screen.

"Everything is gonna be ok," she whispers, hoping that one day, somehow, she may be proven right.

* * *

Mags' girl is the next one to be found by those savages. It's not even a fair fight considering the fact the Gamemakers led the psychopaths right towards the poor girl as she slept amongst the rubbish.

The moment the crazy beasts had their hands on her was the same moment she lost control of her bowels, screaming for her mother. The pack take out knives and jagged shards of metal and glass, mercy being far from the front of their minds.

"No, no... dammit, no..." Mags covers her eyes, unable to force herself to watch this particular death.

It happens quick as a flash. One moment the savages are ready to absolutely brutalise her poor girl to a pile of gore, the next moment a spear has been expertly thrown and killed the fisher girl in a split second. The torturous death traded for one quick and painless. She was dead either way, so it's as good as it'll get.

A second spear flies gracefully through the air while the pack are still wondering what happened and who stole their kill. It comes to a sudden stop right in the back of the animal abusing boy from Ten. As he falls to the ground with a whimper, his cannon firing soon after, Vercingetorix makes a run for it.

It's just as well that he does. If not for his head start allowing him to pull ahead, climb within a pile of garbage and remain still as a statue he'd have surely been caught and tortured.

Mags watches as the psychos pass him by and one by one start to go off in their own directions, all craving blood. She further watches as Vercingetorix climbs out of the garbage and sprints off to where Amethyst is hiding.

Olga can call him a coward for running all she wants. To Mags he's looking to be more and more like the hero of this vile Quell. He spared her tribute a horrid, drawn out death and for that he's got her respect.

* * *

Gwenith dares to hope that her girl may survive this mania after all, her having fled the bloodbath and been expertly hiding out for the first week and avoiding the terrifying, fragmented pack at every turn. The only person that her tribute, a farm girl, has come across was Vercingetorix. He only wanted water and she wanted a knife; a trade was made and no blood was shed.

But as day eight approaches, Gwenith taking a moment to gulp down some coffee and look through the catalogue of gear she is allowed to sponsor in, disaster strikes.

Vents open near her girl and clouds of some sort of nerve gas fill the air just as acid rain strikes. The garbage doesn't protect her for long and leaves her fleeing for her life in search of some kind of cover. The wrecked train carriage is an obvious choice for her to hide in.

Only when she turns on her flashlight and sees the bloodsoaked face of the girl from Ten does she let out a scream.

Gwenith is screaming as well once the girl, Karabo, begins to bite deeply into her tribute's neck. She's screaming, gasping for air, wailing and only when a strong pair of arms wrap around her does she feel any sort of feeling beside mortal terror.

"You didn't give up on me," Bear says, his tone almost shockingly gentle. "Not giving up on you either."

Gwenith tries to be thankful, but the sight on screen has her too repulsed to say a word.

* * *

"That girl is a sick freak," Bear coldly tells Captain Jobar.

The Captain, the Mentor for Ten until they finally get a Victor of their own, cannot find it in him to remotely disagree with Bear as he watches the screens and how his tribute is on the trail of the boy from Three.

* * *

What happens at half past three on the ninth day has Crown feeling more trauma than anything that happened in his own arena the previous year.

The boy from Five makes molotov cocktails out of sheer boredom and desperation to see somebody burn. It's not long before he's throwing them all around in hopes of igniting somebody and turning them to ash.

He fails to accomplish this, but he does manage to flush out Vercingetorix and Amethyst from their hiding place. The fire is quick to find fuel laying on the ground of the garbage dump and cause an ignition. Amethyst runs one way and Vercingetorix is sent flying backwards into a wrecked car from the force of the explosion.

It's right near where the girl from Five, a known drug dealer to plenty of minors back home, is making a desperate run from the boy from Six. The boy craves murder, laughing as he keeps up the chase.

While Vercingetorix tells the girl to run and starts a desperate fight against the serial killer a much worse fate befalls Amythest.

"No, no, no, please no..." Crown goes pale, knowing exactly what is going to happen.

The massive brute from Eight has easily grabbed her and has her pressed down onto the ground like a rag doll. He snickers, letting out a breathy whistle between his teeth.

"See these?" he asks, gesturing to the twelve tattoos of screaming faces that cover his bulging, muscular arms. "One for every girl I've caught. After you, I'll have to swing by a Capitol tattoo parlour and get a thirteenth."

Crown flees the room, unable to watch what happens next. Crystal finds him hours later, cowering in a janitor's closet and muttering so fast it seems almost impossible. Without a sound she gently takes him into a tender hug.

Sometimes there are just no words to be spoken.

* * *

Peridot can't bring herself to look at what's left of the last tribute from her own District and instead turns her gaze, all of the venom and hate contained within it, towards the sole Victor from District Eight.

She remembers very well what he did to the final tribute left aside from himself in the Sixteenth Hunger Games.

"Did you teach him that?" she hisses, sounding much like a venomous cobra. "A rapist training a rapist... you people in Eight are fucking sick, you know that?"

Peridot storms away, not bothering to hear what meek words Woof has to say in response. She doesn't even feel a single bit of elation when Vercingetorix gets the boy from Six on the ground and lands the killing blow to his neck.

She just takes out a comic book, some candy and pretends that she isn't about to cry.

* * *

Tide's main thought as she watches the boy from Two isn't if he can escape the nightmare he's willingly entered, oblivious to how awful it would become.

It's not if the cyber terrorist from Three can find a computer to fix up and use to hack the arena systems to escape.

It isn't if the boy from Five will set off enough fires to consume half of the arena.

It isn't if the girl from Five might get herself high from the paint cans she is sitting near, terrified.

It's not if the girl from Six will quench her bloodlust, temporarily at least, before the next anthem.

It's not which girl the rapist from Eight will have his way with next.

It's not who the rich, prissy psychopath from Eight will have framed and flogged if she wins.

It's not whose flesh the cannibal girl from Ten will taste next.

It's who is the most likely Victor of the last eight tributes will be and how much she should bet on them to get herself a good profit from this madness. She doesn't have to enjoy it to admit that betting on the Hunger Games brings in some solid cash.

"Hmmm... probably boy from Two or girl from Six," Tide mutters, lightly tapping her chin with a pencil.

* * *

Isobel can only sigh as the boy from Three, in his desperate run from the girls from Ten and Eight, pushes her own tribute right into their path to buy himself some time. Any other year she'd be utterly furious over such a cowardly display.

Not this year. Not when that girl is the reason her little cousin died of a drug overdose at the age of fifteen. She knows logically the girl may not have meant for it and that her cousin was stupid enough to buy the drugs to begin with.

But revenge is a fickle thing. Isobel cast a vote and the similarly effected citizens of Five and the arena itself did the rest for her. Still, she can't hold back a wince as the maniacs really start to go at it.

"This isn't right," she mutters to herself after the cannon fires.

"...I voted for her too," Shunt says from his seat beside her, quietly. "I know the feeling."

After the initial surge has passed Isobel feels shame for what she did and how she felt. Now she just feels empty and more than a little lost. She wonders if it's the same feeling the lone Career from Two feels as he walks aimlessly through the arena, muttering out quiet apologies under his breath as his wraps a bandage around his arm.

She doesn't miss the way he says he should've died in Amythest's place.

* * *

Rook eventually gets a few hours of pure, lovely peace when Olga turns in for a few hours of rest. With Baron off on sponsor duty, Runa getting some bed rest and Boulder locking himself in his room out of protest and revulsion he has the District Two mentoring area all to himself.

He has to admit, it's not really as great as he expected. He only ever mentored a single time, the time he was required to in the Games following his own, and Olga took over the instant that Isobel's karate tricks were revealed. Hardly a true taste of being a mentor.

It's hardly better this year either. The tributes are fucking insane and he'd be fine sharing company with exactly one of them right now.

Ok, one and a half if the tiny hacker from Three counts.

Too bad the odds of one of them coming back are looking pretty damn unlikely. Though with how the Victor village is crowded enough as it is, at least in his opinion, – Olga thinks it's too empty – maybe it's better this way.

He lights up a fine cigar, ready to smoke away the next hour or two, when Vercingetorix comes across the boy from Three – his name escapes Rook – near a pool of toxic waste.

The loner can't help smirking when the pair shake their dirty, somewhat bloodied hands as they agree to an alliance. Both know that with everybody else being a total savage it's really their only hope.

"Districts Two and Three, together again," Rook remarked, thinking back to the alliance he had with Socket in his own games several years prior. "Not bad, not bad."

* * *

Shunt feels disturbed to some degree that he is rooting against his own tribute at this point. It's a feeling that just... it just seems _wrong_.

The Career and the cyber terrorist make a solid plan, working to set up traps made from the garbage around the arena. If the maniacs can be ensnared then surely they'll be simple to take out; a restrained tribute is generally a dead one, no matter their power.

Duracell sets the traps up and instructs Vercingetorix to lure one of the others – any of them, he doesn't care who – into the traps. At that point they can finish them off.

It turns out that the boy from Five, the sinister pyromaniac, is the closest one to the traps and it's all too easy for Vercingetorix to lure him to his doom. In a quick motion the boy is ensnared with wires and broken glass. One swing of the sword is all that it takes for the cannon to boom and the arena to be down by one pyro.

Shunt just packs up his things, adjusts his fedora and walks out of the room silently. There's novels to be written, after all.

* * *

Baron looks at the screen out of loyalty towards the suffering boy from his District, nothing more.

He's not just on sponsor duty most years due to being good at it or because Olga always mentors year after year and thus leaves only one other spot open. No, it's also because he hates everything about the damn Games and how they've become a cultural virus within his homeland.

All he wanted was to save his mother and he used the most deadly opportunity that, at the time, seemed like the only possible way. If there had been another way, **_any_** other way, he'd have never trained up as he did.

Not if it meant the youth of his District training to become murderers solely out of pure greed nine times out of ten. Worse was the fact some clearly enjoyed what they were doing.

In his darkest moments Baron wonders if he should've just said goodbye and let his mother pass. Once upon a time he was ready to kill to save her. Nowadays he knows that it's impossible to measure one life, or several, against others. She's dying again, this time simply of old age. Far more peaceful, but it makes him feel like he merely bought himself time and ruined the District in the process.

It's really only Runa who keeps him going. He never fit in around any of the other Victors, not even Boulder when it really got down to it.

Of course, he had no way or telling anybody that. Not when his dad still held power at the academy and not when, being the first ever Volunteer, his unwanted fame wasn't going away for quite some time.

He walks around the fancy sponsor garden, charming people like he does year after year in hopes of securing money for the tributes of Two. Macey is long dead by now, but Vercingetorix remains alive and – Baron would never admit to feeling happy about this – clearly shows signs of hating everything the Games stand for.

Perhaps there is a Victor from Two he can finally relate to besides his wife, though first he'll have to win. He glances at the screen, watching as the duo from Two and Three manage to trap the rich monster from Eight with Vercingetorix landing the kill.

The Capitolite crowd cheer, coo and applaud at the murder they have just seen while Baron simply looks away. He'd never judge a tribute for murder – it's all the same in the end – but it doesn't mean he has to enjoy it.

He's collected enough money that could feed two dozen families in Twelve for ten years by the time that he heads off in a taxi bound for the mentoring station. Such waste, he thinks, such disgusting waste.

If this agonising shame is a punishment for starting this whole thing then he'll willingly bare it for always and always. It feels like a fair trade for all the lost lives.

* * *

It's day sixteen when Honorius, once again, has to see his tribute die. Between Pi being forever in a state of misery and suicidal thoughts and how his tributes almost never do particularly well the smart man has to wonder how he hasn't become desensitised to all forms of feeling by now.

Maybe he's got a bigger heart than he thought. Perhaps he's just about as stubborn as his grandpa was years ago.

Whatever the answer is it all goes to the exact same destination: death. In this case, his boy dying when more hidden vents send out a hurricane of nerve gas and drive Vercingetorix and Duracell apart, their alliance proving to be a bit too effective for the liking of the Gamemakers.

Vercingetorix almost falls into a pool of toxic waste and has a terrifying one hour long climb on the underside of a rickety hanging car to escape such a terrible fate. Rook lets out a cheer, once again filling in for Olga as she sleeps and Boulder hides, but Honorius can't cheer with him.

It's hard to do so when his boy narrowly escapes the demented cannibal from Ten only to come across the beast from District Eight. For a sick, horrible moment Honorius wonders if his tribute is due the same violation as the girl from One.

He's not. Instead the hulking brute smashes him against a pile of sharp junk until he dies. It takes twenty impacts, each one leaving his poor tribute more and more mangled and moaning. The worst part is when this kill earns the beast a sponsor package of freshly cooked beef burgers.

"You fought well," Honorius mutters. "Please, Duracell, if you can hear me someway somehow... tell the thirty seven other tributes I failed to save that I'm sorry."

First thing is first, checking on Pi. After that, perhaps it's time he stood up and agreed to joining in with Isobel's ideas of rebellion...

* * *

Runa turns the TV on for a brief recap of what happened on the eighteenth day of the Quell. Only one major note ended up happening.

Apparently Karabo had starting making the Capitolites feel really uncomfortable with her cannibalistic impulses and the Gamemakers felt it was time to pull the plug on the freakish girl. Hence, an earthquate had been triggered and she fell into a pool of corrosive water. She got out before long but the damage was done.

In this case, the damage was much of her skin peeling away and what chunks did not were left raw and red.

It was a warning to not commit cannibalism in the arena in future Hunger Games, a warning only one tribute just over forty years later did not heed.

Vercingetorix came by not long after, having just dodged over ten clumps of falling scrap metal. He makes it quick, looking like even he is losing the will to live. He plainly has nearly reached the 'despair event horizon' as her Grandpa used to call it. Only the desperation to ensure none of the remaining psychopaths make it home absolved of their crimes and free to start new rampages keeps him going.

He's got nothing left to lose, merely trudging around the filthy garbage dump with his sword dragging in the rough dirt beside him.

Runa hopes that he wins. Not just for Two, but for himself. He seems like a good young man, really. One who simply became indoctrinated in the system and only realised how utterly wrong it was when it was far too late to back out.

Runa can't stand to watch more than a few minutes. Reminders of the Games just hurt her to think about.

After all, she's only a few days at most from giving birth to her and Baron's little boy and both suspect that the child of two Victor's is an incredibly likely candidate for being reaped. What little optimism she retains thinks a Volunteer would step up for him.

The rest of her knows better and realises the need to train their boy to spare both him, herself and her husband plenty of pain.

* * *

Woof sinks down into his seat, filled with nothing but shame as he watches the the screen and several of the other Victors watch him, all judgemental or perhaps afraid.

As the maniac from his District has his way with the beaten, battered serial killer from Six he knows they're thinking back to that terrible crime he committed. That thing he did to the boy from Two nearly ten years ago.

He only ever did what he was told...

He hopes his District loses, he begs whatever God may or may not be there that this sick, twisted little fuck is killed before the trumpets ring out.

He's lived twenty days in the arena by now and that's twenty too many.

Just as Woof lets out a few absolutely silent tears a long, thin object whooshes through the air.

It's a spear and it just skewered the girl from Six, barely missing his own tribute. His boy, Linen, looks up and leers as Vercingetorix draws near with a sword in hand.

"So, come to play?" Linen asks, his grin wide like a frog and lecherous as a snake.

"Let's _do_ this," Vercingetorix says, cold as ice. He's broken, but he's been trained well and has enough fight left in him to win this last battle.

Both tributes stand tall and aggressive, their weapons gripped tightly. The Quell ends here and now.

* * *

Crystal can hardly look at the screen after all the terrible things that have happened this year, much worse than the normal sort of flair for the Games. But as a show of respect to the fallen pair from One this year she forces herself to be a big girl and watch.

She wishes Harp had tagged along this year. If ever she needed a big, warm hug it was right now.

The pair of tributes circle each other as the moon glows, the wind howls and a hurricane of nerve gas surrounds the clearing to cut off any form of escape. With every full circle taken they come just a bit closer to each other. It goes on like this for a minute that seems practically eternal.

They lunge.

It's all so fast, blurry and utterly savage. Blade hits blade, sparks flying as the pair keep up the duel. On one side it's a dashing knight. On the other it's a terrible monster.

It almost makes Crystal think of her favourite storybook her mama read for her when she was little: Beauty and the Beast.

It's two minutes into the furious fight when blood is spilt. Linen punches Vercingetorix hard, breaking the Career's nose. Despite the pain a counter attack is launched, Linen left with a nasty cut on his left arm.

"You ruined my tattoo," he hisses, leering. "You're gonna regret that, filthy pig."

"You're gonna regret it too; all the horrible things you've done. The girls you violated!" Vercingetorix screams as he brings down his sword.

Linen deflects it and again they circle each other.

"Still not killed as many as you," he chuckles, licking his lips for a moment. "Feel proud? Who is the real psycho here?"

"Both of us," Vercingetorix doesn't hide the shame, even as he makes a desperate dodge to avoid being gutted. "And I'm not dying, not when it means you walking free to rape more girls."

Linen doesn't talk after that, just snickering and letting out a raspy chuckle. Their weapons collide in one hard clash.

They break.

For a moment the tributes are silent over what just happened. A second later they sprint to a pair of junk piles still within the boundaries of the hurricane and search for any sort of weapon.

Crystal softly gasps, unsure if she's doing so out of horror or sheer awe at what she is seeing.

"Holy smokes..." Crystal feels her jaw hanging open as she gawks at the action on screen.

Both young men hold circular saws, the wireless devices still working as the saws speed up and whir in a way that seems almost monstrous.

Crystal and the rest of the Victors watch, stunned, as the knight and the rapist slam the buzzing saws together over and over. The wind howls like a monster as thousands of sparks erupt into the air every time their weapons smack together.

Linen dodges a would-be fatal attack and lunges forth. He leans down on Vercingetorix, starting to push him back and gain the upper hand in the gruesome duel.

"What's the matter, boy? You look worried!" he cackles, letting out a dull snicker. "You should just give up, Two!"

"Giving up.. is not an option..." Vercingetorix is exhausted, but refuses to cease fighting. "Now when you'll put so many women in danger."

"Got a sister? I'll tell her hi on my victory tour," the brute lets out a bellowing laugh. "And maybe more than that too."

Vercingetorix sees red and makes his final attack. He sees much more red a moment later when his saw meets Linen's flesh, showering blood around as the rapist writhes and screams in sheer agony.

Vercingetorix finishes the fight, and the Quell, by pushing harder with the saw to finish off the brute. As the saw goes deeper the blood showers even worse than before.

No doctor can explain what happens next, not a single one in the decades after the Quarter Quell ended.

One moment Linen is writhing and practically gushing blood. The next moment, as Vercingetorix puts on more force his upper half outright _**explodes**_ , sending numerous chunks and puddles of gore flying around.

The lower half of the rapists staggers a few steps and collapses to the ground, ever so still.

All is quiet in the garbage dump for a while. Vercingetorix sighs, exhausted and relieved, as he tosses away the circular saw.

"Do me a favour and _stay_ dead," he mutters, dropping to his knees. "...Finally... it's over..."

Crystal can't help wildly cheering, for a few moments looking just as excited and gleeful as she did as a little girl any time a new Victor was crowned. She applauds as the hovercraft descends to collect Vercingetorix from the arena, the boy shaking and trembling like a lost child.

If District One couldn't win, she'll gladly take the dashing knight over any of those horrible psychopaths.

* * *

Vercingetorix is relieved that the nightmare is finally over. He's at least half sedated for the after-events of the Games, whether it's the interview or the party. Everything is a blur he can only remember because he sees it on repeat on the TV inside the train.

He lays on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. Gone is the boy who would fist fight other cadets at the academy to prove his worth as a tribute, gone is the boy who longed to enter the arena and be just like his Victor idols, gone is the boy who had any kind of respect for the Career system or for the Hunger Games.

All that remains is a broken husk.

He doesn't bother to leave his room to join the celebrations, whether for his victory or the fact District Two won the Quell. The idea of cheering over this makes him sick and he doesn't want to be near Olga anymore than he has to. She flat out thinks he won the wrong way, much like Rook did several years ago, and should have taken better care of his pack as well as not been such a 'baby'.

Part of him wishes he'd died in the arena, whether dying to save Amethyst or killing himself right after he killed Linen. He has to wonder, what would have happened if there was no Victor at all?

The only upside, the one good thing, is that Baron knows how he feels and said his door is always open if Vercingetorix needs to vent about anything. He know he'll be taking the first Victor of Two up on that offer very soon.

Vercingetorix soon settles down to try and get a, probably restless, sleep. He's alive at least, and that means he's gonna be a Mentor now. He'll do his best to help other kids who enter these Games.

He'll Mentor them and tells them how utterly stupid they were to throw away their sanity and their once good lives all for the sake of greed and fame.

"I'm sorry mom. I'm sorry dad," Vercingetorix looks beyond the ceiling and off to the heavens as he speaks. "I'm not the fighter I thought I was and I'm not the Victor that you wanted me to be. I'm... not sure who I am..."

* * *

"I never kept up with Victor news. Was he still alive at the time of the third Quell?" Peeta asks, unsure.

"Effie sent me tapes of other Victors to help me prepare. She only sent me tapes of living Victors... the twenty fifth Games was not along them," Katniss replied, looking somewhat distant. "He must have been dead, or maybe just in no state to compete again."

"Poor guy. Sounds like he really got more than he bargained for in the arena," Peeta sighed, looking a little depressed. "Shame really. How many Victors were dead before the Quell? Eighteen wasn't it?"

"Sixteen," Katniss said. "And now there's just nineteen left. Us Victors are a dying breed."

"Yeah... it's depressing," Peeta said, softly.

The couple kept on walking for a few paces down the street until they came to the next face upon the sidewalk. A tough looking boy looked back at them with firm eyes, a confident smirk and a shaggy mop of hair. All this and a upon scar on his forehead.

"Stallion March," Katniss noted. "At last, the first Victor of District Ten. Sure took a long time."

"Too long," Peeta agreed. "And Six remains without a Victor."

* * *

There we have it, the first Quarter Quell. Quite the gruesome, vicious mess overall and with my logic regarding what sort of maniacs would be voted into the arena it seems only logical for it to be that way. Vercingetorix wins, but certainly will never be the same person that he once was. At least he managed to take down all of those psychos along the way, right? Hope you guys liked him and how all the Victors showed up once again. To quote Smash Bros, everybody is here! Anyway, next up is the first Victor of District Ten at long last. Stay tuned!

* * *

 **Stats**

 **District 1:** Peridot Gaudy (8th Games), Crystal McCree (14th Games), Bronze Marley (19th Games), Crown Martins (24th Games)

 **District 2:** Baron Overwhill (4th Games), Runa Peace (7th Games), Olga Machete (10th Games), Rook Valiant (17th Games), Boulder Atherston (20th Games), Vercingetorix Carnby (25th Games)

 **District 3:** Honorius Perthshire (5th Games), Pi Orbit (22nd Games)

 **District 4:** Museida Selkirk (3rd Games), Mags Flanagan (11th Games), Tide Luther (23rd Games)

 **District 5:** Shunt Gaspar (12th Games), Isobel Sparks (18th Games)

 **District 6:** N/A

 **District 7:** Pliny Aransio (2nd Games), Fir Buzz (9th Games), Jack Tylos (21st Games)

 **District 8:** Woof Casino (16th Games)

 **District 9:** Mizar Aldjoy (1st Games), Gwenith Rosebud (13th Games)

 **District 10:** N/A

 **District 11:** Bear Redfoot (15th Games)

 **District 12:** Duke Saint-Rose (6th Games)


	27. Stallion March

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Hunger Games. They belong to Suzanne Collins.

 **Note:** The era between the first and second Quarter Quells begins! And what better way than with the first Victor of a Distirct we've not seen hide nor hair of so far, aside a few brutes and shrimps in the arena. I certainly had fun with this one. Overall a touch lighter than the previous chapter was, not that such a thing is hard, and a bit more of a dark comedy of sorts. Plus, world building in Ten! Hope you guys enjoy. :)

* * *

Katniss looked down at the face of Stallion on the ground, as if unsure what to think of the boy who won so many years ago.

"Was he anything like Pasture?" Katniss asked, raising an eyebrow. "Anytime I think about District Ten I always think of her."

"Hard to forget the girl who beat twelve people to death with a shoe," Peeta agreed, a morbid chuckle passing his lips. "Honestly, I don't have much to say about Stallion. Just that, as you would naturally expect, he was a hero to his District when he went back home. Twenty five years of defeat in a row sure must have been awful."

"Imagine how District Six felt," Katniss said, frowning to herself. "He looks strong alright; I'd assume he was a pretty solid fighter."

"Three kills is certainly more than District Ten tributes would get in most years," Peeta agreed. "I mean, you know, besides Pasture."

"Crazy hillbilly, that one," Katniss said with a slow shake of her head.

The pair from Twelve became silent, letting a few moments pass by in respect to Stallion.

* * *

 **26th Annual Hunger Games**

 **Name:** Stallion March

 **Gender:** Male

 **District:** 10

 **Age:** 16

 **Kills:** 3

* * *

Life in District Ten is a particularly slow sort of affair.

The stories of wild cowboys, horseback chases in pursuit of bandits and southern belles with golden hair and hearts are all exaggerations, assuming they were true to begin with. Instead it's a place full of sparse settlements, massive fields and tons of livestock.

It also has a smell that only a resident of Ten can ever become ok with.

Most men and women with any kind of strength work long hours in the fields or the slaughterhouses. Others work in the factories and turn the meat into pies, steaks or burgers for the 'generous Capitol' to enjoy. Almost all of the jobs available in District Ten are the type that require plenty of messy hands on work which often becomes bloody, either due to blood of livestock or due to the unsafe working conditions that the citizens of Ten are forced to work under.

It's not the case for all citizens though, just most. Some citizens with a family business or a bit of brainpower can find a place in a more safe, indoor sort of working environment. Shoe makers, tailors, saddle crafters and so on.

Stallion March is among this sort of citizen, in his case being a worker at the library of the biggest settlement of District Ten. A massive boy at the age of esixteen with a height of six foot and five inches, a bulging set of biceps and a strong work ethic. He's every boss' dream employee, being able to easily haul around heavy crates of books and move shelves like they are nothing.

Kids can only watch in awe at how he's not only very much able to carry as many as three book crates with ease but also can read through near anything and understand the contents. Books on microbiology or nuclear physics come just as easily to Stallion as understanding the themes and meanings behind ancient books such as Lord of the Rings.

Many of the kids watch, cheering, as he lugs massive loads around and, on request, lifts as many as ten youths in the air as they sit on a bench. They often ask why such a powerhouse of a young man doesn't work in the fields or the slaughterhouses where he'd never fail to make quota. He'd be a great help.

Stallion, often a man of few words, just gives a small smile and claims the indoorsy life always agreed with him more. He never gives away more reasons to it than that little scrap. There are theories – allergies to animals, a secret lair in the library, fresh air being his one weakness – but Stallion just chuckles over them all as he works quickly and contently.

The real reason is a lot simpler, though it's nonetheless one he'd prefer to keep as a secret.

* * *

By the time of the Twenty Sixth Hunger Games it's pretty clear that District Ten is almost as close to thinking they will never have a Victor as District Six is. The previous year was a reprieve, one to get rid of the cannibal and a notorious animal torturer, but now the fear and painful resignation are back in a big way.

As the treaty is read out as it is every year, everybody from the twelve year olds to the eighteen year olds is shaking in terror like a lamb led to the slaughterer. It's ironic, the young citizens of the livestock District being a form of human livestock themselves. It's the same prayer muttered all around.

Not me. Please, not me.

Sometimes there are prayers for it to not be siblings or friends.

A scant few pray for a schoolyard bully or a nasty ex to be the one reaped, not that they'd say such things out loud.

One girl wails and hundreds of others sigh out in pure, utter relief as the escort – dressed as a blue cow with wings, naturally – reaps a fifteen year old by the name of Jezzica Grundler. A stout girl from one of the many butcher stores dotted around the settlements, her kind has gone into the arena before and all died. Whether or not she wins, the other girls are glad to be safe, either for a year or forever.

Everybody knows the shaking girl is doomed, surely just as doomed as whichever boy ends up being chosen. It's like the hearts of the District all stop as one when the escort reaches into the boys' reaping bowl and picks out a single slip of paper.

Tension rises.

"Stallion March!"

Out of the sixteen year olds section he marches, just as his surname might imply. The cameras are all on him as he, looking more like a man in his early twenties than a teenager, mounts the stage.

"Hi," he says to the escort, nice and friendly. "Nice day we're having."

The escort swoons, charmed at the good manners of the tribute she's gotten – naturally, not a single person volunteers – and begins gushing over how handsome and strong Stallion is. He politely smiles and, hiding his fear coolly, says he'll be doing his best.

As the crowd leave the reaping they have two main thoughts filling up their heads. The first being that poor, obviously dead Jezzica deserves better than this terrible fate.

The second is that, if he plays his cards right, Stallion might have a chance.

Of course, after twenty five years of defeat and painful death of their tributes it's hard to feel very strongly about one of their tributes having a chance. It's just asking for trouble.

* * *

Despite their reservations the citizens of Ten can't help feeling a sense of hope as the opening events of this year's Hunger Games begin to play out day by day. In each one Stallion remains calm, composed, friendly and more and more likely to be a serious contender in the arena. Weaker tributes than him have won before. The desperate desire to have hope burns strong once again.

In the parade Stallion stands firm and confident as a finely dressed cowboy. He gives bold, fearless looks to the cameras and even winks here and there. The Capitol love him from the get-go.

Of course, he's no match for the Careers and the love they always get. A Ten never is, even one as popular as strong, smart and oddly indoorsy as Stallion

But Stallion's strong performance doesn't stop there. In training he easily passes the edible plants tests, shows a familiarity with snares, swings swords and maces like they're an extension of his arms, throws axes and knives with a small smile on his face and even has more than one of the junior Gamemaker women looking a bit red in the cheeks.

The Careers mark him as a threat to pick off from the start but he doesn't let it threaten him at all. He just claims to have seen worse monsters in books that ended up dead and he doesn't see the Careers being much different.

He earns a ten when the scores are announced, the highest that the livestock District has ever been able to manage. The hope in Ten becomes harder to reign in, much like an unbroken horse. Could this boy really be their first Victor... or is he too good to be true? With his fanbase and score, the District can only hope that the interview will not be a disaster.

It's not.

Mortimer died before the interviews could begin, the ass cancer between his cheeks claiming his life while he sat on the can mere hours before the big event. Given it happened so close to the start of the interviews and how delaying them was quite simply not an option the staff had to grab somebody, _anybody_ , who had some degree of social skills to take command of the interviews and keep the show going on.

It was a young, somewhat gangly intern aged a mere sixteen years old and sporting the name Caesar Flickerman who got yanked from his thankless job setting up some stage lights and thrust into the centre of attention.

A star was born that night.

Two stars, in fact, as Caesar and Stallion hit things off remarkably well. The teenagers joke about their teenage issues like work and finding a date, personal hopes and dreams, favoured movies and even if the Capitol or Ten have the superior recipes for salted bacon. The audience laugh, the teen and the tribute smile and it's all looking like a complete success.

"Do you feel confident about your chances in the arena tomorrow?" Caesar asks Stallion as the interview comes close to ending.

"I'd say so. In fact, I feel as confident about tomorrow as I do about day twenty or so," Stallion lets out a low chuckle. "Quite confident, just you wait and see."

"I shan't even blink lest I miss a moment," Caesar declares, grand and dramatic. "But one last question, Stallion... a big and strong guy like you, what's got you cooped up inside instead of being out in the fields? I think you'd be a great field worker."

Stallion just smiles.

"Maybe you'll see, maybe you won't," he replies as he shakes Caesar's hand to end things off. "If you don't find out in the arena then I'll let you know when I'm back. I _will_ be back folks, you hear?"

Stallion leaves the stage to a massive, thunderous applause filled with cheers and declarations of love and support. The people of the Capitol seem to love him, all seeing him as a serious contender for the crown.

His District cheers for him, the local smart strongman proving himself to be the best chance for a Victor they've ever had and quite the likeable young man regardless. Maybe this is their year. Maybe they can finally, _finally_ win and at least pull ahead of District Six.

It all comes down to the arena at this point. They hope for something that will play to Stallion's strengths.

Stallion hopes for literally anything besides one particular type of terrain. It's never been used, so maybe he's in the clear...

* * *

When the tributes rise into the arena it's barely five seconds before they feel like being sick. All around them is horrible, grimy, slimy green water and splattering of brown foulness upon the concrete floor and the large metal pipes that lead further away into the repulsive depths of the arena.

Rats scurry around in the darkness as the countdown ticks from sixty towards zero, the only light coming from a faint glow on the Cornucopia and a few electric lights built into the walls of the sewer here and there.

Many of the tributes are scared or at least disgusted by the arena they'll be fighting to the death in, but it's to the shock of the nation that early favourite Stallion looks like he is moments away from a complete and utter panic attack.

The countdown hits zero and the tributes begin to charge through the sloshy, awful sewage towards the bounty of the Cornucopia. Stallion meanwhile takes a deep, shaky breath and slowly puts one foot into the gunk around his pedestal.

Right before Glitter from One can grab a spiked club, her favoured weapon, a shrill scream breaks her focus and causes her to stumble and fall into the sewage. She rises, spitting and writhing in disgust as rapidfire footsteps begin to approach her.

"GET IT OFF! GET IT OFF! GERMS! GRIME! _**GET IT OFF OF ME**_!"

Stallion moves like a blur, screaming and wailing as he surges towards the Cornucopia, bashing five tributes out of his way in the process. He tramples right over Glitter, forcing her further down into the raw sewage, and scrambles to grab up several large packs of gear and a big, mostly empty backpack. He dashes out again just as quick as he ran in and flees with screams and cries down one of the large pipe tunnels.

"GET IT OFF! GET IT OFF! I NEED SOAP, HOLY CRAP I NEED SOAP RIGHT NOW!"

All at once Panem sees what the issue is. The reason why Stallion is nearly never seen outdoors and never in the fields.

He's severely germaphobic.

District Ten can only sigh, feeling like fools for getting their hopes up. Meanwhile the tributes get over the stunning sight of Stallion having a meltdown and resume fighting and scrambling for supplies. With the putrid smell, the darkness and how the sewage water makes it hard to properly move around the Cornucopia clearing properly the bloodbath ends up being fairly small with only six bodies left to lay sprawled out and partly submerged in the sewage.

As is often the case the Careers arm up, the Outliers scatter away... and this year, Stallion continues to plead and beg for some soap.

It's only not much later that things begin to go downhill and a bigger problem than the Careers and their deadly weapons begins to arise...

* * *

Time ticks by until the second day within the sewers arrives. Stallion doesn't care to keep track of the time at this point, far too busy using a sponsored soap bar and some roll on deodorant to clean the grime off of himself. He sits hunched up very deep in the sewer twitching, shivering and moaning as he desperately tries to clean the grime away.

"Get off, get off, get off, get off, get off..." he mutters fast, almost as fast as Crown is known for doing.

Stallion has his issues, certainly, but the worst issues start to become apparent at around midday in the sewer- not that the tributes could actually tell the time, of course – amongst all who were given an injury at the bloodbath that was not given treatment swiftly.

Infection.

For ten of the remaining tributes, Glitter among them, their cuts and wounds have become infected with the germs of the sickly sewer and are beginning to make them sick. For now it just means nausea and occasional vomiting, but as days pass it's anybody's guess how bad it will be.

Tide, from the mentoring room, runs bets on this exact topic as a matter of fact.

The Careers hunt slowly, weighed down by Glitter being sick and her District Partner, a muscular brute by the name of Flash, adamantly refusing to go on without her. His loyalty earns admiration from One and the Capitol but plenty of ire from the Twos. They wander the vast pipe system of the sewer for hours, only managing to kill off the boy from Five.

The lanky power plant worker had been fairly close to dying anyway due to how the long cuts on his upper arms were badly infected after a fall into a deep pool of sewage. He even greeted the pack with a weak wave and telling them to just do it.

It's hardly the hunt that Crash and Coco hunger for.

Things get worse as the day goes by, the tributes getting all the more sickly and spread out. Stallion is just minding his own business, wiping his arm with another bar of soap, when a hatch opens from above him and more awful gunk fall out right on top of him.

His scream is heard throughout the entirety of the sewer labyrinth, echoing shrilly against the walls to a degree that becomes painful for the other tributes to listen to.

"GET IT OFF ME! GET IT OFF ME!"

He sprints fast, practically a human blur as he blasts through the tunnels at random. He doesn't even realise that he runs right over the girl from Eleven and crushes her chest, the cannon barely entering his ears over his own screaming.

* * *

Stallion's immense speed and the sheer shrill volume of his screams cause the Career pack plenty of problems. Not only do they have no way to catch up to somebody running around so fast but they have no idea where he even is due to the echoing of his voice.

All the while the infected Outliers and Glitter continued to get weaker and weaker as infection took its toll.

Indeed, it was such an issue that a Feast was called as early as day four with plenty of medical supplies in hopes of healing up the tributes or at least creating some action packed deaths rather than infection doing the work instead.

Even with the tributes being given help with navigation – a sort of hot and cold game where their trackers would lightly vibrate when they were going the right way – not that many reached the feast. The healthy saw no reason to risk themselves, six of the sick tributes died and the Careers were slowed down by Glitter.

They got there just in time to see the tiny boy from Three running away.

To make matters worse it was right then when Glitter decided to drop dead. Crash and Coco seethed at their still living ally from One as Stallion's screams, wails and shouts kept on echoing over and over.

* * *

Infection is not content to merely strike people once, cured or not. By the eighth day everybody aside from Stallion and Crash have taken some kind of cut or wound that the sewer has infected all too easily. Outliers and Careers alike begin to die without particularly much fanfare as the only two healthy tributes continue to either prowl around in search of prey or run around screaming like a madman.

District Ten feel the familiar sense of pain and resignation like they always do. How stupid they feel for assuming they actually had a chance of any sort this year. Jezzica died of infection on the fourth day while Stallion has proved to have been vastly weaker than the nation had assumed; he's managed two kills, admittedly, but only by accident due to trampling over people who had fallen down from the pain of their wound infections already. It wasn't like he won a real fight.

It's only a matter of time before the dashing, strong boy from Two manages to find him and lay the fatal, final blow.

In the time between then the Head Gamemaker, knowing the idea of a filthy sewer maze is really backfiring on herself, calls for a second feast. Crash makes it there promptly, but nobody else does. They're either laying near death, trudging around as they slowly and painfully die miles away or, in the case of Stallion, just run in random directions screaming and begging for some soap and conditioner.

With the way the Capitol audience boo over the lack of bloodshed and true fighting she's dragged away kicking, screaming and begging from the control room by Peacekeepers under order of Orion to be executed for this blunder.

One of her subordinates is given the temporary role of Head Gamemaker, merely given the order to end the Games without any serious issues. She promises to do so.

It feels like a formality anyway, given that of the six... wait, no, five tributes who remain – the boy form Four just perished – Crash is hands down the most likely winner. Three of the rest are dying out from the sewer germs as it is, probably having less than a day or two left, and Stallion is such a broken, germaphobic mess that being healthy will not really grant him any sort of chance anymore.

With a half hearted shrug she tells the other Gamemakers to drive the tributes together for the finale as soon as one more of them dies.

* * *

The boy from Three falls into eternal silence midway through the afternoon of day nine and the finale begins. Waves of horribly, slimy sludge begin to flood the sewer pipes and drive the tributes to the higher points of the sewer for grimy, close combat.

The girls from Seven and Nine don't make it very far, the former being lost in the raw sewage and the latter having been around ten minutes from death anyway by the time the vile fluids catch her.

As Crash reaches the high ground first, pausing to catch his breath, District Two feels certain that they will be able to bring back a Victor two years in a row while District Ten hardly pay any attention. They know how this goes by now, the underdog makes a last charge and gets cut down like an animal in the slaughterhouse; why bother holding out any hope?

The screams and shouts draw closer and Crash readies himself for a fight. Of course, when standing in the middle of a four way intersection in the pipe tunnels it becomes hard to know quite where his opponent is and where the rapidly approaching footsteps are coming from.

By the time he looks behind himself he's far too late to dodge as Stallion, covered from head to toe in sewage, charges at him in a frenzy of panic and mania. Crash falls, trampled as Stallion barrels right over him.

Most think Crash will just get back up and quickly finish the job.

They're wrong.

Stallion runs in a panicky, crazy circle over and over for three minutes. In that time period he repeatedly steps on Crash with the Career boy given no chance to get himself back up again, the effort becoming harder and harder every time he is stepped on.

He's hardly even twitching by the time Stallion steps right onto his neck and the cannon fires.

Stallion screams in horror at the blood on his shoes and takes out his last bar of soap to try and wash it away, only pausing when the trumpets ring out.

He stands still, dropping the soap as he looks up in awe. The roof over the sewer opens up and a hovercraft begins to descend. It's like a spell has been lifted as the ladder to freedom drops beside him.

"...I did it," he whispers. "I'm the Victor... the first of District Ten..."

In spite of being covered in grime, blood and other foul things he manages to give a warm smile to the cameras he knows are watching him.

"I told you guys I could do it. I told you I'd be coming home," he says as he grabs hold of the ladder, it locking him into place and lifting him up to freedom and a shower. "It was all part of the plan... more or less."

District Ten are absolutely stunned into place for several long moments before they erupt into massive cheers and begin to dance, celebrate and party hard over their victory. They won! They finally have their own Victor!

They're so caught up in their own festive celebrations that they don't pause to think of District Six, the District with no Victor at all and whose two tributes died in the sewage within the first ten minutes.

* * *

"So, what's the first thing you're going to do when you get back home to District Ten?" Caesar asks as the final interview with Stallion comes to a close.

"Hmm... well, I gotta say that I'll probably make a nice beef sandwich, read a good book... and take a shower," Stallion says with a relaxed smile, having finally calmed now.

"Magnificent plan," Caesar says, laughing. "You know, people are calling you 'The Bull' or even 'The Stampeder' after all the running you did and how that running was exactly what took out three tributes. What do you have to say about that?"

Stallion considers it for a moment.

"Well, I guess it's just like all of District Ten in the end," Stallion replies. He smirks. "Mess with the bull, you get the horns. We're not so weak anymore and you can expect us to bring a good fight next year just like this year."

"I love that confidence, I _love_ it!" Caesar exclaims as he and the crowd applaud.

A rarity for most post-Games interviews, there was only really a single lie in that Stallion had told Caesar and the nation as a whole. He didn't plan to take a shower.

He planned to take one hundred!

* * *

"Well, I don't know him, but Stallion must have been one hell of a badass survivor," Katniss remarked as she and Peeta resumed walking. "He must have been tough to get a win for District Ten after so long."

"Yeah. Probably one of the strongest Victors of those early years," Peeta agreed.

The pair walked on a short distance and came to the next face of the many upon the asphalt. A strong looking young man looked back at them, his eyes brimming with eager confidence and a manic grin unmissable. His hair resembled a sort of mohawk.

"Dragon Batofel," Peeta said, slowly shaking his head. "The 'challenge runner' of the Hunger Games."

* * *

That was a fun one. Certainly had me chuckling a bit as I wrote it out. We've had people fake being weak and then unleash immense power so I had the thought... what if somebody was assumed to be formidable but then just spent the Games screaming, sobbing and running around in a panic. Stallion was the result and honestly I like the way this burly goofball turned out. A nice contrast to the grimdark nature of the Quarter Quell. Stay tuned for more!

* * *

 **Stats**

 **District 1:** Peridot Gaudy (8th Games), Crystal McCree (14th Games), Bronze Marley (19th Games), Crown Martins (24th Games)

 **District 2:** Baron Overwhill (4th Games), Runa Peace (7th Games), Olga Machete (10th Games), Rook Valiant (17th Games), Boulder Atherston (20th Games), Vercingetorix Carnby (25th Games)

 **District 3:** Honorius Perthshire (5th Games), Pi Orbit (22nd Games)

 **District 4:** Museida Selkirk (3rd Games), Mags Flanagan (11th Games), Tide Luther (23rd Games)

 **District 5:** Shunt Gaspar (12th Games), Isobel Sparks (18th Games)

 **District 6:** N/A

 **District 7:** Pliny Aransio (2nd Games), Fir Buzz (9th Games), Jack Tylos (21st Games)

 **District 8:** Woof Casino (16th Games)

 **District 9:** Mizar Aldjoy (1st Games), Gwenith Rosebud (13th Games)

 **District 10:** Stallion March (26th Games)

 **District 11:** Bear Redfoot (15th Games)

 **District 12:** Duke Saint-Rose (6th Games)


	28. Dragon Batofel

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the Hunger Games. They belong to Suzanne Collins.

 **Note:** Sorry for the delay with this one guys, real life's been kinda kicking me in the nuts lately and leaving me with not as much time to sit down and really work on my HG fic stuff. But, I found some time and a glimmer of inspiration, so here we are with the result! Dragon here may be one of my favourite Victors so far, especially of the Career Victors. Hope you like the nutjob as much as I do. :D

* * *

Katniss turned her gaze away from Dragon's imprinted face on the ground and looked towards Peeta, curious.

"What do you mean 'challenge runner'?" Katniss asked, lost.

"Something Brutus mentioned when we were practising with spears before the Quell began," Peeta said, still slowly shaking his head. "Apparently he thought the Games were going to be so 'pathetically easy' that he went out of his way to make things much harder for himself. Just because he didn't want an 'easy victory'."

Katniss stared, bewildered by this revelation.

"...What?" she said, flatly.

"I know, it's really stupid," Peeta agreed, groaning. "He broke his own arm down in his launch room and that's just one of the things he did."

"...WHAT?!"

* * *

 **27th Annual Hunger Games**

 **Name:** Dragon Batofel

 **Gender:** Male

 **District:** 2

 **Age:** 18

 **Kills:** 7

* * *

Dragon was a boy that liked to do everything the hard way.

 _Everything_.

Whether it was taking on extra work that would be sure to cause stress, pushing himself beyond his limit when training at the academy, duelling with a hand tied behind his back or staying out after curfew so that he'd have to sneak past spotlights and guards to reach his bed the bottom line was that Dragon never did things the ease, safe or even sane way. It simply didn't seem to be an option for him.

It was a mindset that he learnt from his Grandpa as a young boy, the man having been a reckless war hero back in the Dark Days. As a kid Dragon would spend numerous hours admiring his Grandpa's vast amount of medals for bravery and a multitude of war accomplishments. He was often told the same thing by his Grandpa, words that he took to heart.

"I'd not have earned a thing if I always played it safe. The rest of my squad could tell you that, poor saps without medals."

Dragon never ever played it safe, not even once. No amount of scratches, bruises, broken bones and discipline could ever break his sheer spirit and fearless nature. If anything, that only seemed to make it all the more fun for him and kept him coming back for more.

With his desire for an extreme challenge it seemed only logical to Dragon that his destiny was to enter The Hunger Games for better or for worse. He'd always survived every past danger and challenge he'd gotten into, never unable to simply walk off the pain. Why should the ultimate risk, the _ultimate_ challenge be any different?

His training scores were stellar all across the board in the academy of District Two. He was deemed to be one of the most powerful, vicious tributes that had ever trained within the stone walls of the academy. Even Olga had to admit that he was an obvious choice to enter the arena, his Victory seeming incredibly likely.

Of course, where's the fun in taking part in something that you already know you'll win? Dragon didn't want an easy victory – the lame kind of Victory – and instead wanted to win in the most epic of manners while simultaneously having an incredible challenge to overcome.

It may be hard, it may be agonizing, it may even lead to his death... but Dragon didn't care, simply wanting to demonstrate his power and have a great time doing it.

That and, most of all, following in the footsteps of his Grandpa and facing enough challenge to make him proud.

* * *

 **TEN WAYS DRAGON BATOFEL MADE THE HUNGER GAMES MUCH HARDER THAN THEY REALLY NEEDED TO BE**

* * *

 **#1: Blowing The First Impression**

As a sort of rule the tributes from District Two would always make a stellar first impression upon the Capitol. While always shown second, after District One of course, the Twos were the most ferocious tributes, the most Capitol loyal tributes and, of course, were the most likely tributes to win. No tributes from Two aside from Slate in the First Games had ever made a terrible first impression, always securing many sponsors from the word go.

Dragon felt that such an extreme advantage over almost every single other District being handed to him was nothing short of playing the Hunger Games with training wheels on. So, naturally, the only thing to do was make the Capitol lose any possible favour with him from the beginning. He could win this thing without any sponsor aid, dammit!

One irregularity happened at the reaping before Dragon could do a thing. His sister, always a glory hound and usually the order to contrast her brother's chaos, volunteered before the chosen volunteer could get the practically magic words out. After a fistfight and the original volunteer getting her wrist broken it was official that Wyrm Batofel would be the female tribute and that Olga was very close to an aneurysm.

Dragon couldn't help but laugh. Being in the arena with a family member? Emotionally, it didn't get much harder than that! If she wanted to make a deadly debut, he figured it'd help his goal of making things harder by doing the exact opposite.

"Rubble Umbri!"

"Like, omigosh, I toooooootally volunteer!"

The residents of District Two could only stare in complete and utter shock and horror as Dragon pranced his way up to the stage in the most effeminate manner he could possibly put on. With an outright girly giggle he skipped onto the stage and wave a cheeky wave to the District.

"Oh em gee, I am like soooooo totally excited right now!" Dragon let out a shrill squee of delight, popping a knee back as he bounced around. "I'm, like, gonna slap all those mean tributes with my purse!"

As Dragon was led into the Judgement Building alongside Wyrm it quickly became clear to the Capitol citizens that the boy from Two made perhaps the hands down worst impression of the full batch of tributes. Acting all camp, giggly and like he was some kind of a stereotype? It was just not what anybody needed to see. Even the boy from Six who shit his pants at least had a beard!

Dragon just relaxed in the room he'd been shoved into, his hands behind his head and his feet resting upon the table. He'd gotten exactly what he wanted out of his debut on the stage; he'd had a great laugh at the expense of everybody else and the sponsors wouldn't see him as a viable candidate to put any early pledges towards.

The challenge was building up, but it was far from enough to satisfy his sheer desire for insane odds to overcome...

* * *

 **#2: Ditching The Career Pack**

Dragon took one look at the pair from One and came to an instant realisation, a matter of pure and careful insight that simply could not be argued with.

They were fucking weak!

In his own not-so-humble view Brilliant and Sparkles were pretty weedy by the standards of District One and didn't look like they'd score any higher than an eight. The tree chopping brute from Seven, Weeder, looked tougher than them and he'd not even had any actual training in his life.

Dragon figured he stood to lose little if he just went solo. Sure, it wasn't exactly the biggest of challenges that he was looking but having an alliance automatically made his upcoming challenge run totally pointless. Where was the challenge if you had three people watching your back? It didn't exist, plain and simple.

"Yeah, fuck this, I'm out," Dragon said with a casual shrug, making his way over to the sword training station.

"Out? Wait, what do you mean 'out'?" Wyrm asked, a scowl of contempt upon her face.

"Maybe he's coming out as gay?" Sparkles added, fiddling with her hair whilst tossing a knife nowhere near the target. "I mean, his reaping made me wonder."

"...Uh, no? I'm ditching the pack as you're fucking worthless and I'd just do better alone anyway," Dragon shrugged, shaking his head. "Honestly, ask Wyrm, I like girls. How many did I sneak into my room at the academy?"

"At least twenty," Wyrm drawled. "Are you being serious right now, brother? I know you're insane, but are you actually stupid as well? This makes no sense!"

"I kinda figured he was insane from the start," Brilliant said, chuckling over the whole display.

"He gets it," Dragon remarked. "I want a challenge and I can't get that alongside you lot."

"So basically you're gonna piss off Olga like Rook did? You fool!" Wyrm spat, disgusted.

"He ditched the pack because it made his odds better," Dragon said, starting to use his sword against a training dummy. "I'm doing this because it makes my odds _worse_."

And so it was that Dragon showed the other Careers his favourite finger and proceeded to ignore their shouts and jeers. He kept up the ignoring right after insulting the families of the pair from One for extra challenge, of course.

What better way to have a disadvantage than to have trained killers out for your blood? Even Wyrm no longer saw him as family, merely competition and Dragon was perfectly fine with this.

His satisfaction grew higher when Weeder and Flicker, the girl from Three, were recruited into the Career pack. After all, in Dragon's opinion a pack of five was a much more satisfying challenge to brute force his way past than a tiny pack of just three people.

* * *

 **#3: Scoring Even Lower Than Slate, That Poor Sap From The First Games.**

When it came to training sessions there was often a wide variety, even amongst the toughest Careers or the most feeble outliers... even if the latter was sometimes just a variety of different crying noises. The Gamemakers would watch, sometimes half-focused if even that, and take note on what the tributes could do, often privately thinking of them as hopeless or worthy of mockery.

Some chose to show their skills with weapons like swords or spears, with the occasional display of more unique weapons like bolas or even a kusarigama. Others focused on survival skills like water finding, identification of plants and edible bugs or even basic first aid. There were even those who would just tell jokes in hopes of making the Gamemakers laugh and take pity on them (contrary to popular belief Fir had not actually done this).

Dragon had a target. He had to score lower than Slate, the timid thirteen year old who had been the first ever tribute from District Two, a boy who got slashed by King's sword many years prior and only scored a mere three.

There was really only one certain way for Dragon to get an even worse score than Slate and so he did not hesitate to put the plan into action.

He walked in when his name was called and laid down to take a nap. That was it.

He got up and yawned fifteen minutes later, leaving the room with a snicker over how disappointed and pissed off the Gamemakers looked. It was all going according to his plan and he couldn't be more pleased about it.

Dragon had to admit he was wrong. He felt even more pleased when he was awarded a two when the scores were announced for the nation.

"A two for a Two, it feels like a good omen," Dragon had said to his disgusted sister and sickened Olga. "Has a nice ring to it."

Olga muttered some kind of scathing Russian curse word and headed for her private vodka cupboard. Vercingetorix just looked at Dragon like he was some kind of mentally ill freak and quickly made an excuse to leave.

Dragon had to wonder why he'd not gotten a one, but shrugged it off as merely the Gamemakers thinking his powerful, trained body had some kind of potential. He knew he'd find a way past this and keep the challenge rising.

* * *

 **#4: Acting Like A Truly Creepy Son Of A Bitch At The Interview**

Caesar Flickerman was back to host the interviews again following his success from the previous year. His natural charisma and charm made him a smash hit that really bought out the best in even the seemingly least popular tributes. Everybody in the Capitol, and even a select few on the Districts, appreciated his sense of humour, the way he could spin any interview into a positive experience to watch and take part in and the how his interviews gave each tribute at least some sort of a chance of getting sponsors.

Of course, that all being said, Dragon certainly gave him one of the toughest interviews of his entire decades long hosting career.

After all, most tributes would at least speak back or give some grunts of acknowledgement. Even the rare mute tributes would give a physical sort of reaction. But Dragon wasn't just any sort of tribute, he was a challenge runner!

That was why he spent his interview staring at the audience with creepy, lecherous eyes and breathing slow, deep breathes as he did so. Not a single person watching the show didn't feel at least some kind of low-key mortal terror at the sight.

"So, Dragon, do you have a special girl back home?"

Deep breathing. Constant staring.

"Do you have any particular fun hobbies... say, playing the banjo?"

Deep breathing. Constant staring.

"Come on Dragon, give me something here!"

"BOO!"

Dragon left the stage to very minor applause, some jeers, a lot of bewildered silence and two audience members moaning from their heart attacks. What could he say besides the fact he was satisfied?

The ground work had been laid out but the real challenge began now. Surviving the arena and upping the difficulty any time the opportunity presented itself.

* * *

 **#5: Breaking His Arm**

Dragon relaxed throughout the hovercraft ride to the distant arena, feeling refreshed and ready to get cracking once the gong rang. Looking around at the other tributes, though, made him feel a certain sort of underwhelmed.

Most of them were incredibly week this year, scoring between a two and a five. Only the five member of the Career pack scored above a seven and the sole other person who got better than a five was Rik from District Six and the fact he had shit his pants at the reaping automatically made him worthless to Dragon.

With pathetic tributes like them to battle against Dragon felt as though his sincere efforts to raise the challenge for himself would be for naught. These guys were practically incapable of fighting, let alone walking around unaided!

As Dragon entered his launch room he knew exactly what he had to do to get himself the ultimate victory he craved so very badly.

"Stop! Stop it! What in Orion's name are you doing?!" the stylist shrieked in sheer horror at what he was seeing.

That being, of course, Dragon repeatedly jumping over and landing on his right arm. On the fourth attempt a nasty crack filled the room as his arm broke. Despite the pain that surged through him the Career boy still managed to smirk in deep satisfaction.

"Ahhhhhh... aw yeah, that's what I needed," Dragon said, laughing.

"Are you literally fucking insane?!" the stylist wailed.

"Nope, I'll be fucking a supermodel once I win," Dragon said with a snicker. "Though I'll give you one thing, I might be just a tiny bit crazy. I'd have to be mad to volunteer, right?"

The stylist couldn't find it in himself to remotely disagree, just telling Dragon to get in the launch tube and out of his sight.

* * *

 **#6: No Running, Only Walking**

As Dragon's launch pedestal clicked into place he had to put his hands out to steady himself as a powerful wind began to slow around him, a task made harder by the broken state of his right arm. This year's arena was among the windiest yet, perhaps second only to the stormy island of the Twentieth Games. All around him gales blow with incredible force, his tribute outfit billowing wildly.

It was another forest this year, one that was certainly a tad odd to look at. The entire place was completely monochrome. Black and white all over, nothing else aside a few rare shades of grey in scant supply. Wind had the white blossoms and leaves flying around, the black tree bark peeling here and there as a result of the almost-hurricane.

Just as Dragon spotted a nearby pool of what may have been some kind of soapy, bubbly liquid and the faintest glimpse of a small puny looking creature that had a yellow bulb upon its single antennae there was a swift disaster.

The fierce wind caused Rik to lose his balance and, with a scream, fall off of his pedestal. The explosion tore him to pieces, his body blasted around in scorched chunks. The combination of the noise and wind ended up making the beanpole boy from Eight and the fat girl from Five fall to the landmines as well, both ending up just as dead as Rik.

With three opponents dead before the gong had even rang out Dragon had began to get worried, his hard fought victory looking easier by the second. He scowled, scared that the difficulty would be locked into easy mode if these idiots didn't stop getting themselves blown up.

If they intended to make it easy, he'd fight with everything he had to make it harder. That was why, when the gong did ring, he did not join the other twenty tributes in running towards the Cornucopia.

He casually walked towards it.

The battle was quick to get started just as it did every year. Wyrm was quick to cut down the girls from Six, Twelve and Seven with a massive, serrated sword and showed no emotion at all as she did so. The pair from One worked together to hold down the tough boy from Ten and beat him bloody. Even Weeder was able to effectively slay the willowy boy from Four, giving Flicker the chance to get into the Cornucopia and hide, her role in the pack only possible if she ended up surviving the opening minutes.

Meanwhile Dragon casually scooped up a knife and a small vibrant green duffel bag midway between his pedestal and the Cornucopia. Despite his broken arm and slow speed he made the very, very slow charge towards the boy from Three who was rifling through the contents of a large bag moments before his planned retreat.

It was with great ease that Dragon stabbed the boy in his back. The smart boy tried to flee before it was too late, but all his stumbling ended up making it simple for Dragon to take him out in short order.

Dragon left after that, having gotten the bare basic equipment that he needed. But, given he was going no faster than a casual stroll it made him quite the easy target for Weeder to make a charge at.

"Might wanna be a bit quiet next time," Dragon remarked, turning on his heel to plant his knife right into Weeder's lung. "Not that there's ever gonna _be_ a next time, mate."

Dragon left into the windy, monochrome forest without anymore issues after that. The other Careers had been busy chasing after Pippin from Eleven, he having been able to make off with a burlap sack of water bottles, leaving Dragon to take his pick of where to go next without the risk of a violent stabbing. He had to admit, he missed the danger already.

As thirteen cannons boomed and his walk became a strut Dragon started to make a beeline for the high ground of the forest where the worst of the wind seemed to be located.

* * *

 **#7: Taking The Hard Route, No Exceptions**

The windy forest of monochrome madness was quick to claim its victims. The combination of the Career pack hunting with cool efficiency under Wyrm's leadership and the immense gales made navigation extremely difficult for the Outliers and Dragon. Even the pack had their own struggles as they tried to bare the endless wind storm.

Dragon wasn't a small boy by any means, he oozed toughness... and yet, even he was having his issues keeping himself balanced as he kept on hunting through the fierce forest. He'd lost the trail of the girl from Eleven at least three times and, as much as he appreciated a lengthy chase, he was starting to feel just plain irked. Mainly from boredom more than anything.

"Come on, come on, where are you?" Dragon grumbled, lost as to how a thirteen year old was evading him so easily.

Dragon came to a crossroad of sorts on the fourth day in the arena. To one side was a slope that led up to the top of a steep hill. To the other side was a dangerous, rocky walkway that led to the same place, albeit with pointless danger.

"The sensible man would choose the slope," Dragon mused. He soon snickered as he headed for the rocky route. "Too bad I'm not that lame."

Dragon ignored the slope entirely as he began the trek up the precarious, deadly walkway of sharp rocks and a nasty drop that would claim anybody even slightly clumsy. The walk was dangerous with the crazy Career boy nearly toppling over to his doom six times. His broken right arm made it incredibly hard to keep himself properly balanced on the highly limited space that was available to him.

When all that remained between Dragon and the top of his perilous ascent was a straight fifteen feet climb up a rocky wall his manic grin seemed to double in size. Overcoming that with one of his arms broken? It was exactly the thing that he was looking for to assert his sheer badassery!

"Watch and be amazed, Panem," Dragon said as he started to haul his way slowly but surely up towards the top of the cliff.

The audience were indeed amazed, along with feeling incredulous. Despite his broken arm, lack of any sponsor support and and the howling wind that tore through the woods Dragon managed to inch himself up the cliff over a tense, deadly half hour. It was torturous and painful, just how Dragon liked all his challenges to be.

A cannon boomed distantly as Dragon reached the summit of the large hill and stood in the sunlight, wheezing for breath. Despite how dangerous and sheerly unnecessary his detour had been he felt truly on top of the world, laughing as he raised his non-broken arm in triumph.

"Yeah! I beat you!" Dragon laughed, bellowing and roaring like his namesake. "I fucking beat you!"

Dragon made his way over to a nearby pear tree, plucking the fruit to eat while he took a brief moment to relax. He hardly cared that the safe path would've gotten him up to the top in under two minutes.

* * *

 **#8: No Cheap Kills**

Typically, if a tribute were to come across another tribute who was fast asleep they would take them out while they were unable to fight back at all. Either that or run away before the sleeper were to arise and realise they were not alone.

Dragon thought this was ridiculously cheap and unbecoming of the challenging victory he wanted. He wanted to give everybody a fair chance in combat, even if it was less for their sake and more for his own ego. Fair seemed fair.

That was why when Dragon found Brilliant sleeping in the bushes, having split from Wyrm after Sparkles had been sent off a cliff by the powerful wind, he didn't stab him in his sleep. Instead he began to howl and whoop like a monkey in an attempt to wake up his opponent for a proper duel.

"You're insane, anybody ever told you that?" Brilliant added as he gripped his spiked mace close to his chest.

"Many people who were tougher than you," Dragon replied with a wink, he and Brilliant circling around each other.

"Did they say you're fucking stupid as well?" Brilliant persisted, snorting.

"I'm not fucking stupid," Dragon smirked slyly, his eyes alight with mischief. "I'll be fucking your mom once I get to One on my Victory Tour, though!"

Just as Dragon had intended Brilliant became enraged and even fiercer in his fighting ability. He swung his mace again and again, trying to beat the brains out his crazy opponent. Even one armed, Dragon was fast enough on his feet to strut around Brilliant's unfocused blows and swings until the boy from One was in dire need of a break.

"What the fuck... how are you... strutting out of the way... so easily?" Brilliant wheezed as he took a few steps back.

"I mean, you do realise I just got a bad score on purpose right? I could've gotten a twelve but I wanted a challenge, something you failed to give me, mate," Dragon tutted, shaking his head in dismay. A smirk widened on his face. "How about I give _you_ a real challenge instead?"

Even one-armed Dragon was stellar at knife fighting and had Brilliant on the ropes from the start. Dragon ditched the knife midway through and resorted to using his fist to give Brilliant some kind of a chance to turn the tide of battle but the result was inevitable before long.

The cannon boomed and Dragon left the area feeling a rush of bloodlust while Brilliant's corpse was left bloody and beaten, already getting tossed around by the ever stronger wind.

* * *

 **#9: Hit Every Wire**

After killing the boy from Five Dragon set off back to the Cornucopia in search of those who were still alive at this late stage of the Games; aside from himself it was just Wyrm, Flicker and Sail from Four. Dragon had already taken out five people and was ready to make it become a grand total of eight if that was the way it had to be.

Arriving at the Cornucopia after a disappointing lack of trouble presented Dragon with the latest challenge of his reckless quest of insanity. The remaining supplies were at the back of the Cornucopia and, he was quick to notice, so was Flicker.

"Give it up Dragon," Flicker said, calm as ice. "Between you and I is a series of wires charged with a lot of voltage. If you touch them it will _**hurt**_. So, I suggest you just leave because I am not coming out."

"Challenge accepted," Dragon replied, cracking his knuckles.

Flicker watched incredulously as Dragon charged right at the electric wires, shouting and screaming as he was zapped. Flicker soon began to scream and panic as Dragon overcame the challenge and tackled her to the ground. Even through his twitching and pain it didn't take him long to grab a knife and slit her throat.

"Pain... pain... aw fuck..." Dragon groaned, rather blackened and smokey from the wire trap Flicker had set up.

* * *

 **#10: Cherry Tapping**

Dragon missed his chance to kill Sail when Wyrm found the boy first. It wasn't long after that when the forest began to collapse, trees falling all over the place as the heavy wind guided the last two tributes in the arena to their final battle. Dragon barely managed to walk out of the way of the trees, only able to strut to the finale due to how ending a Hunger Games without a final battle was likely to get any self-respecting Head Gamemaker killed.

Dragon and Wyrm crossed paths at sundown of the twelve day in the monochrome forest, the former with a tiny dagger and the latter with a big sword. Dragon greeted his sister openly, ready for a glorious and hard battle. After all, she had a great weapon and both her arms still working. It was sure to be amazing to overcome her.

Wyrm just gave her stupid brother a dull look, called him retarded and charged in with a war cry.

The nation of Panem, mostly just the Capitol and District Two really, watched with awe and excitement as all family ties were discarded and the two siblings fought viciously, just like their draconian namesakes from eras long since passed.

Wrym fought with vicious swings of her word, always focused on the attack. For several moments Dragon felt like he was going to die. A particularly bad slash sent him reeling, a gash torn on his already broken arm.

"That all you got?" Wyrm asked.

Dragon responded with a sudden lunge that was faster than Wyrm could possibly react to. She was left with a small cut in her shoulder, a trickle of blood slowly escaping from her flesh.

"Was that really the best you could do, Dragon?" Wrym scoffed, rolling her eyes as she tried to dodge another strike, failing as a second minor cut was inflicted on her.

For a while the finale became agonisingly slow, a mere showing of Dragon fighting through the pain in his arm to dodge Wyrm's swords strikes and keep on inflicting very minor cuts across her muscular body. Not a single one of the injuries looked remotely serious and Dragon was almost completely out of energy.

But as Dragon ducked and dodged a would-be killing blow the audience began to see the point of his cherry tapping strategy. Wyrm was starting to wear out from blood loss, her energy only getting drained quicker by her heavy attacks.

With a final strike Wyrm collapsed and, with a bittersweet farewell, Dragon ended the Games with a quick stab. It was nothing personal, just business. It was the District way, after all.

No sooner had the victory trumpets rang out Dragon collapsed in a heap of sheer agony. Despite the immense pain, he was victorious and truly satisfied with his hard fought and well earned victory.

"Was that... all you... got?" Dragon wheezed as the hovercraft descended. "My dad hit harder... when I was a...baby..."

Dragon then passed out and entered a month long coma, his idiotic actions finally catching up with him.

* * *

"I thought crazy people weren't allowed to win the Hunger Games," Katniss said, frowning. "Most of the time they'd just rig a trap or something against them if the other tributes didn't kill them off first."

"I guess there's a fine line between crazy and insane, one Dragon did not quite cross. I'm sure District Two was impressed by him," Peeta said, soon trailing off into an awkward silence.

The pair said nothing more as they moved over to the next face on the long side walk. The face of young girl with particularly fluffy hair and wide, spirited eyes looked back up at them.

"Teff Withers," Peeta said, observing the image of the young girl. "No pun intended, but I hear she won the Games despite being deaf."

"I guess she must have used her eyes then," Katniss said, humming in thought for a moment. "They sure are wide, don't you think?"

* * *

There we go, Dragon Batofel wins in challenging and probably ridiculous fashion. I've seen all kinds of rather insane challenge runs of various video games over the years and I couldn't help wondering what a challenge runner put into the brutal and morbid Hunger Games would be like. The result? A tad over the top in execution (ok, more than a tad...) but a rather comical, insane Victor who I enjoyed writing for. Stay tuned for more!

* * *

 **Stats**

 **District 1:** Peridot Gaudy (8th Games), Crystal McCree (14th Games), Bronze Marley (19th Games), Crown Martins (24th Games)

 **District 2:** Baron Overwhill (4th Games), Runa Peace (7th Games), Olga Machete (10th Games), Rook Valiant (17th Games), Boulder Atherston (20th Games), Vercingetorix Carnby (25th Games), Dragon Batofel (27th Games)

 **District 3:** Honorius Perthshire (5th Games), Pi Orbit (22nd Games)

 **District 4:** Museida Selkirk (3rd Games), Mags Flanagan (11th Games), Tide Luther (23rd Games)

 **District 5:** Shunt Gaspar (12th Games), Isobel Sparks (18th Games)

 **District 6:** N/A

 **District 7:** Pliny Aransio (2nd Games), Fir Buzz (9th Games), Jack Tylos (21st Games)

 **District 8:** Woof Casino (16th Games)

 **District 9:** Mizar Aldjoy (1st Games), Gwenith Rosebud (13th Games)

 **District 10:** Stallion March (26th Games)

 **District 11:** Bear Redfoot (15th Games)

 **District 12:** Duke Saint-Rose (6th Games)


	29. Teff Withers

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Hunger Games. They belong to Suzanne Collins.

 **Note:** Here we are, another chapter and ever closer to the end of the third decade of Hunger Games victors. I found this one interesting to write for; I'm well accustomed to first person POV's, but writing such a POV for a deaf character is quite interesting. How may they respond to the world if they cannot hear a single part of it? Well... read on and find out, eh?

* * *

"I feel like she probably got lucky. I know most Victors do, but to be death... anybody could've snuck up on her. It's a wonder they didn't," Katniss said, crossing her arms.

"Maybe they did and Teff managed to get away before it became fatal?" Peeta said, scratching his chin for a moment. "You know, apparently she was the first of two legacy victors."

"Really? Like, related to a past Victor?" Katniss asked, curious.

"Exactly. I've heard Teff here was the niece of Mizar Aldjoy," Peeta replied, nodding.

"Being related to the first ever victor of this sick game must have made her 'popular'," Katniss said, her words coming out in a dismal, sour drawl.

* * *

 **28th Annual Hunger Games**

 **Name:** Teff Withers

 **Gender:** Female

 **District:** 9

 **Age:** 14

 **Kills:** 3

* * *

I've never know what a scream sounds like.

I imagine that they'd be loud, probably, but I don't know what loudness is either. How could I when I can't hear a thing? Never have, never will. I'm alright with that, because I don't think I'd want to know what a scream truly sounds like. A scream of terror like what mom and Uncle Mizar apparently let out when I was reaped. A scream of sadism like what the Capitol citizens probably made at the parade. The screams of agony when tributes are torn apart by mutts.

The only scream I think I would ever want to hear would be screams of happiness or excitement, like what I imagine the crowd lets out any time I score a goal during a hover ball match. Not to brag, but I've got a particular knack for that game and lots of people come to watch any time I'm playing.

When I was younger I believed that people came because they thought I was the greatest hover ball player in Panem. I figured they loved seeing how strong and awesome my kick was, perhaps that a talent scout was among them who'd get me on a professional team or something.

A few came for that reason, but mostly they just wanted to see the first ever victor of the Hunger Games and his niece. Uncle Mizar never had any children and doesn't want to, but then mom had me and apparently the Capitol wanted to meet me for a while. I never really knew quite what that could mean until just a few days ago.

I know now. It's not me these people want to see, it's my blood. They want to see me dead in the dirt, 'sacrificed for the future of the nation'. I don't need to be able to hear to work out that they expect me to be helpless, having only scored a five and presumably unable to avoid being snuck upon by a bloodthirsty Career.

It's strange. Nine was so peaceful and quiet, mostly. The Capitol is full of roaring crowds and all kinds of fast, flashy lights and events... but it's all the same in the end. Silent. Even as the people around me react so very strongly, whether miserable or aggressive, everything is the same way it's always been.

Silent.

I know I should be sleeping before the Games begin tomorrow, but I just can't. The clock says it's one in the morning... I probably won't be sleeping for at least two hours yet. How can I when I may be dead tomorrow? So, I've been sitting here at the window for quite a while and just... staring down below at the dreadful city.

Outside I can see the Capitol citizens in their silly, childish outfits parading around in the streets and, I assume, chanting and yelling as they count down until their favourite time of the year kicks off. I'd feel the same if it was hover ball, but taking part in a death game? By all means, delay the start of the event. Please and thank you.

Sound means nothing to me, but I can't say the same for colours. I wonder what colours I'll be seeing in the day, or days, ahead of me. Will the arena be anything like the blue skies and golden wheat fields back home in District Nine? Will it be a yellow, sandy desert? An imposing white tundra of ice and sleet? A vibrant green jungle?

Will a nasty shade of red leak out from my probably pink intestines?

Outside the colours are overwhelming. All kinds of bright pinks, pea greens, electric cyans, strong crimsons and even some sunset oranges... it's a wild sight that could drive anybody mad. More than the fear of imminent death could anyway.

Caesar was nice enough to at least have had an interpreter on stage during the interview; it's only thanks to his foresight that I made anybody cheer. Not like the reaping where I didn't hear them call my name; I only knew when a Peacekeeper grabbed me and almost broke my arm, his mouth flapping silently and spittle coating my face.

He was an asshole, and I don't care if mom doesn't like swearing. He was an asshole and more besides!

I stretch out, wondering what I am going to do. Nine often does poorly in the arena, aside my Uncle Mizar and honorary Auntie Gwenith. They did their best for myself and the boy who came with me – he wrote down the name 'Acorn' for me – but is that going to matter when the Careers are so strong this year? They're huge!

I never got their names. Never heard a single name, not even my own if one were to be technical. But I saw them alright, saw the way they flexed and swung their weapons at the dummies like monsters. Made all kinds of awful faces at the rest of us like we were helpless rabbits. They even recruited the pair from Four this time around.

Biggie and Leggy from One. Swordy and Speary from Two. Knifey and Punchy from Four. Probably not their actual names, but I think they just about sum up what the pack are like.

I hope it's not Punchy that gets me. She's nuts.

Eventually Uncle Mizar comes in to make sure I'm tucked in and getting some rest. He never ever sleeps the night before the Games begin according to Gwenith... or at least, the notes she wrote for me. I guess having his niece in the arena is making it all the worse for him; it's not often that a relative of a past Victor has entered the arena, but they've never made it out before. Mags' niece was killed last year and Shunt's youngest sister died in the bloodbath years ago. I sure hope third time will be the charm...

As Uncle Mizar leaves my room all too soon he looks back, giving me a simple signing.

' _I love you_.'

Naturally, I'm quick to sign back.

' _I love you too, Uncle_."

I'm no sure how long it is before the silent world leaves me and silent sleep claims me, but it seems like no time at all has passed until I'm being shaken awake by my snake faced escort. I'd feel lucky about not having to listen to their babbling if I wasn't about to go into an arena.

I'm not sure what sound I just made, but I think people usually call it a terrified whimper.

* * *

Salt.

Salt is the first thing I smell when I'm risen into the arena alongside the other twenty three tributes. The scent hits my nostrils like a sucker punch, filling me right up. I've always had a good sense of smell and it doesn't take long for me to pick apart the sea salt from the normal kind.

As the light fades away I can see exactly what's going on here. I stand at the very edge of the semi-circle of pedestals. To my left is a rough looking ocean, a nasty dark blue colour spanning out for miles as it thrashes around madly, like some angry water god lurks within. Above me the sky is a gloomy grey, certainly not something nice to be under. Behind and ahead of me is a large beach of faint, dull yellow sand with a distance cove at the horizon of my vision. To my right, it's some kind of massive rock hill that leads out of sight.

I glimpse an entrance hidden away behind some boulders, just barely. Hidden entrance... the thick smell of salt... a salt mine, obviously. Let them try and track me in the darkness of a mine; I may not be able to hear them, but they cannot hear me either.

It's not just salt in the air, but tension too. I wrap my arms around myself, shivering as I spot Punchy and Biggie standing nearest to my right side. Biggie gives me a smirk, but otherwise pays me no mind. I don't linger my gaze to see what Punchie might be doing.

The holographic clock shown above the Cornucopia ticks down, one number at a time. That clock is the one thing I am thankful for the Capitol about. I might have already died without it; when lost in my thoughts, how would I know if it was too early to step off?

A massive shower of dust and sand covers my vision, a silent boom seeming to scatter around the beach. I feel a force, one that has my skin feeling uncomfortable toasty for a moment, and then it's all settled again. The other tributes all flap their mouths and a few have tears trickling from their red, raw eyes... the pile of scorched gore by one of the pedestals is a good enough clue for what happened.

I'm not unhappy that I don't know what explosions sound like. I adopt a running stance, just like I do just before kick-off in a game of hover ball. Uncle Mizar told me to never lose focus and to run away.

I'm not gonna lose focus, but he can scold me for being naughty and ignoring the other part of the advice. I need something to survive here. I know I can reach that bulging purple pack leaning against the outer shell of the Cornucopia. I just know it; I've outpaced bigger boys and girls in hover ball, why not on an open sprint here?

I leap off the pedestal just a nanosecond before it shows a zero and by the time I hit the ground the landmines are no longer the problem.

A hard shower of rain begins, the sky becoming the purest of whites for a moment. It's easy to ignore things when you're unable to hear them, hence why I'm among the first to make it to the Cornucopia. My shirt is already waterlogged, but the pack is in my grasp.

I turn to see the most awful display and soundless carnage. I can't stop myself from stumbling, slowing as I briefly take it all in.

It's like a somebody put on a war documentary and muted it. Punchy uses spiked gloves to strike the small girl from Ten over and over. The sand around them is turning a particularly morose sort of crimson. Biggie keeps guard with a sword as Leggy quickly grabs the equipment off the gutted boy from Twelve. Several of my fellow Outliers are in fights, trading knife blows and punches with bright red blood splashing through the air. I might have screamed, not that I can hear myself.

Distantly I can see Acorn is in Speary's grasp, struggling and presumably wailing. She's got a spear, of course, and it doesn't take three guesses to know what her intent with it is. Sand is sent up as clouds around me as I charge towards them, overcome by a sudden need to protect by fellow citizen of Nine and not merely myself.

I can't forget how Acorn wrote me that message about how I'm the greatest hover ball player he has ever seen. What kind of a sports player let's their biggest fans die?

I scoop up a knife during my mad rush, ready to bring it down into Speary's neck. I'm not far from her but I can't do a thing before the spear is forced into Acorn's chest. No sooner has he crumpled to the ground a massive wall of force sends me flying to the sand. I hold my knife steady, keeping it pointed away from me.

When I look up from my spot on the sand my eyes meet those of Knifey. The aggression swiftly vanishes, agony and weakness filling them up. I kick and punch at him, trying to get his heavy body off of me. He slumps over, having thrown himself right onto the point of my knife. The scent of fresh blood hits my nose, almost too strong for me to take.

I cast one final, grieving look to Acorn's body and flee from the beach. The sky glows purest white from the lightning, the rain falling ever harder. I glance back, unable to stop a salty tear escaping my eye. All that senseless, silent carnage and for what reason?

Murder is not a sport! Though the five Careers who remain all raise their arms and, I assume, cheer over what they have done. The Hunger Games are to them what hover ball is to me.

Only when I run into the caves does it hit me that I'm now on the leader board of this sport. It's because of me that Knifey is dead. I didn't even know his real name and he's still dead.

I try to remind myself it was him or myself, running deeper into the salt mines. He attacked me and got given a red card, nothing more. A blood red card, one that sent him away from life.

* * *

I have no idea how long I've been hiding in these caves. I've not gone outside to see the anthem in case the Careers are near the entrance – assuming they're still alive – and I can't rely on cannons to tell me when somebody is dead. It could be the final two or final sixteen and I'd not know any differently.

I just know it's been a while since I saw anybody. The girl from Eight ran by a while ago, though I have no idea if she's still alive or even inside the caves. Maybe she's dead. Who can say?

I curl up in my little alcove, hunger and thirst being the main things I feel. They're so strong that it overpowers my fear. My pack was emptied of food and water some time ago; the only things left from it are a thin magenta blanket and a second knife to go with the one stained with Knifey's blood.

All I have for water is the droplets that sometimes trickle down the cave wall. It's outright noxious to lick it off the stone. Food comes in the form of bats and the occasional clam I find in my travels through the near darkness. It's nothing to live on.

I should've never came into these tunnels. There's hardly any food or water and I have no idea of anything. Not who is left, not who is dead, not what time it is, not if anybody is outside... and I know all too well that the Gamemakers don't like it when tributes don't do anything.

Thoughts of the horrible men and women in charge of the Games sending mutts after me has me on the move, a knife in each hand, through the tunnels. The silence is enough to have my heart beating painfully fast. I can hardly see a thing; aside the scent of salt that lingers in the air it's like I've been deprived of all of my senses.

The salt mines end up being fairly deep, much more than I had expected. Some tunnels are submerged in water – I know better than to try swimming in those depths – and others have caved it, but it still leaves plenty of paths to choose from. I wander aimlessly, lost without any of my senses to help me.

I try to rasp out the words to tell my dad, mom and Uncle Mizar that I love them but I'm not sure I said it right. Maybe I just slurred.

My legs feel like they're close to falling off, the pain of non-stop walking for hours and hours forcing to take a break. I hardly think about what I'm doing as I clamber into one of the crates set beside some motionless mine carts.

Everything is dark and silent. It remains the same whether my eyes are open or closed. I draw my hands around my knees, trying to focus on anything other than the terrifying silence that surrounds me, practically feeling suffocating.

There's nothing else to focus on aside from the dull smell of salt, one that I can hardly smell anymore.

I try to think back to my favourite hover ball matches I played growing up. My first ever goal... my first trophy win... the time I scored a goal just ten seconds into the match and set the District record.

When I fall asleep, the bitter scent of my tears has joined the few things I can sense.

* * *

Vibrations make me wake up, the world around me starting to rick and rumble. The crate, it's moving! One side of the crate buckles and another side has gained a crack; what could be going on outside of my crappy shelter?

I curl up into a ball, shivering so hard I almost bite my tongue. Is this dark, silent crate going to be my grave?

Not if my knives are able to have a say in this. I grip them tight, a horrible worm of anxiety practically squirming its way throughout me. Please, no more. No more fear. No more pain. I can't... I can't...

I narrow my eyes just as the lid of the crate starts to get taken off. I can!

I lunge from the pure darkness into the dimly visible cave beyond the crate, digging my knives into the person who tried to kill me.

They sway and fall over, lifeless as the dolls my mom used to collect as a little girl. I recoil as their head tilts over into the dismal light. It's the little boy from Eleven, the one who had a sweet smile and wrote me that poem back in training. No, no! Not him! Not this boy!

I back away, stumbling into a reverse leap as the boy's blood leaks close enough to reach my shoe. A surge of animalistic panic fills me up and the next thing I know I'm sprinting through the tunnels faster than any pro hover ball player has ever ran.

Only I'm not running after a ball. I'm running away from the shame and guilt of it all. Too bad it keeps nipping at my heels, like some kind of metaphysical monster.

* * *

I have no idea what time it is. Does time even mean anything anymore? Maybe it's been a week since I killed that little boy, or was it just a day? I just know that it's been a while since I ate something; my stomach hurts, my belly feels so thin and I can feel my ribs now. I'm starving, just like everybody in Nine who wasn't lucky enough to be from a rich family or be related to a Victor.

I'm so hungry that I'd even risk attending a Feast of all things, even with my speed advantage negated! The bread, oh _the bread_... it'd be worth losing a few fingers.

But, I'd never know if they announced a Feast. I'd not even know if the trumpets of victory rang out. I don't know anything!

I alternate between walking through the dark salt mines and sitting with my knees drawn up, rocking myself back and forth. How many of the others are still alive? Where are they?

I never knew how not knowing anything was so scary!

The only comfort is that, when the monsters in the dark come for me, I'll be armed. I still have my knives. Knives mean safety; that's just about all I know at this point.

I think I just laughed. Not sure why, none of this is funny. The sickly feelings make me laugh more, I think. At least my tears might be good to drink if I catch enough of them.

My eyes throb when I enter a flooded cove. The salty sea water comes up to my knees and a bright colouration has me in awe. Over at the far side of the cave are a cluster of large clams, all of them emitting some kind of glow that chases away the sea fog. So pink and so very cyan... pretty...

I step back, gulping. Three figures rise up from behind the clams, slumping over them to stare towards me. They look like mermaids from mom's story books, only... they don't seem very friendly. I think the one on the left just snarled, maybe! They must be mutts.

They all leer at me, opening their mouths... and, uh, what are they doing? It's like they're just making 'o' shapes with their mouths and swaying around. I scratch my head, confusion briefly passing my fear.

They seem confused, as if bewildered by something. I'm not sure what's up with them, giving a lame shrug as I take a step back.

Spotting the corpse of the girl from Eight splattered against the wall of the cove has me ceasing stepping and begin sprinting. I don't dare look back at those mermaid things, I just focus on running through the darkness.

I run until I hit into a wall and everything goes blurry. Things go dark after that...

* * *

I wake up to my nose throbbing, my stomach almost feeling like it's trying to eat itself and everything feeling so very cold.

I sit, rocking back and forth without a care for anything but wanting to go home. I just want to go home, please. Home, home, home, _home_ , _home_ , _homehome_ _ **homehomehome**_!

I should've never come into these terrible salt mines. No sponsors can get down to where I am! Or maybe nobody wants to sponsor me. I don't know, I don't know, I don't know...

Maybe a day goes by until I tackle and stab away at the first sight of movement, as if driven on auto-pilot. My breathing is deep, my skinny chest puffing up and shrinking over and over as I try to calm down. Please, let me go home!

It's barely light enough to see the dead, horrified eyes of the boy from Seven. I don't pay them much mind – I have hardly any mind left as it is – because I can smell it. That smell, I know that one. Sweet... succulent... wheat...

Bread!

I gnaw and devour the bread in a minute, more animal than girl as my teeth tear away at it over and over. It's soon all gone, the darkness falling around me once again and nothing upon nothing filling my world.

I might have just belched.

* * *

I finish my daily routine of sobbing and move on to rocking myself back and forth to fill up what may or may not be the evening. How long has it been now? Months? A year? Maybe the Twenty Ninth Hunger Games have already started in another arena and whoever is left here is forced to keep going until, at long merciful last, somebody else dies.

Maybe I'm the only one left and they just forget about me down in these dark, nasty caves.

Maybe I cry for a while. Maybe I sob for ages. Who even knows anymore? Nothing feels real, just like some weird floaty vision amongst a nightmare. Ok, ok..., hover ball, yes, that's good. The long pitch, the goals, the crowd... that's it, hover ball isn't scary or dark. It's fun, so nice and fun...

The ball, the kicks, the fans, Speary, the team, Biggie, the shiny trophy, Punchie...

I'm running in fear, instinct taking over as the careers start to chase me. My eyes burn from the tears as I flee through the deep, dark shadows. Did I lose them? Are they seconds from killing me? I don't dare stop and look back; I don't want to die like a rat in the dark!

My legs burn, but my stomach is worse. I could eat rocks right now, I'm so _**hungry.**_..

Before I know it I've ran back to where those nasty mermaids were hanging out a few months ago. As I skid to a halt halfway across the cove they rise up, as if I just made them wake up. As before, they open their mouths and act all weird. I don't know what it is they are trying to do, but it's sure confusing me.

Who cares about mermaids? I want food! I'd eat a worm at this point. A _worm_.

Turning back brings me face to face with the Careers. Their weapons are all soaked with blood and so are they and _ohGodIamgonnadie_!

I cower, closing my eyes as I kneel over and sob. Nothing happens for several moments. I dare to peek up at them, only to see nothing in my vision.

After a moment I look back, seeing the Careers approaching the mermaid things in a trance. I don't care to see what happens next. I run for my life and plunge into the darkness once again.

* * *

Am I even in Panem anymore? Whether it was five minutes since I ran from the cove or five years doesn't make a difference, I feel just as bad as I did back then either way. I sit in a corner of the deepest part of the caves, sobbing into my soaked pants. They're stricken with salt water and my tears. I cry for dad, for mom, for my Uncle, for the team, for food. I just cry.

My head feels aflame as everything turns bright. I stumble over, hitting into a crate I'd not seen until now, my eyes spinning in their sockets. Again, I cower. I cower on the ground like a cornered baby rat. Is this where I finally die?

In front of me appear some sparkles of light. I watch, wary, as they begin to form together into the shape of some sort of... object?

Bread!

The light bread hovers in front of me, starting to move away down one of the tunnels. I scramble up and start to run after it. Mine! Mine! That bread is all for me! Mine, mine mine! I'm so hungry, please let me eat, so very hungry... hunger, hunger, hunger...!

I chase the bread through the tunnels, often tripping over. But still, the bread always patiently waits for me each and every time.

Eventually the bread comes to a stop outside the caves. I can see it there on the beach, a fine wheat filled treat all for me. I make a lunge for it, ready to eat like a princess.

I moan, having face-planted into the sand. Just another fake, empty promise...

I rise up, about ready to bawl... that's when I stand in awe, the heavens above opening up to me. My hair billows around me as I gaze up at my salvation.

The hovercraft has landed on the sand, the ramp inside is lowered for me to climb and people inside beckon me forwards.

I walk. I run. I sprint.

I sprint right past the people on here and charge to the on-board kitchen, starting to stuff every edible item into my mouth. I might vomit once or twice from overload, only to keep on feasting.

A prick in my neck is the last thing that I feel, a peaceful sleep starting to overcome me.

* * *

 _[Below is a memo found amongst other personal papers in a box buried in Mizar Aldjoy's back garden. It wasn't until twenty years after the Mockingjay Rebellion – two years after the formation of District Fourteen – that the box was dug up. All documents were declassified and made available as historic resources.]_

* * *

10/10/28ADD

It's been about two months since Teff won the Hunger Games. I remember how relieved I felt when my precious niece won. I remember how Maizie sobbed even more than I did, glad her daughter was coming home. Gwenith organised a massive party to welcome her to her home where she belonged. In that time... life goes on, I guess. But never in the way I'd really want it to. It never will until the Capitol finally falls. A few Victors are joining up now, a bit of a rebellious circle starting to take shape. It's early stuff, but maybe in time it will be something more.

But back to Teff, the reason I am writing. She's... hanging in there. She went back to the hover ball pitch today to see her team. I sat in the stands – she wanted me to come with her, just in case – and watched... that girl is going to go far, mark my words. So much talent, such life in her... even the arena couldn't take it away from her. Seeing her score goals and hearing her team cheering made me so proud.

It's not always great though. Teff suffers from terrible nightmares. She can't handle darkness of any sort anymore. If her night light isn't on she freaks out. She always snacks between meals, afraid of starving to death. I fear that these problems will only keep hurting my poor niece for the rest of her life.

Those caves kept her safe as the Career Pack prowled around the beach and the upper cliffs, but they didn't spare her mental state. It was like two Games were being played at once. One between the Careers and the Outliers. The other between Teff and the darkness. The Games lasted a total of two weeks; Teff's lack of being able to hear anything combined with the darkness and the trauma of killing Wave in the bloodbath drove her mad, the hunger only worsening it. No sponsors were able to reach her when she was so far down.

If not for her deafness the sirens would've killed her with their hypnotic song. A Gamemaker oversight that I hear got a few people hanged. Is it wrong to be glad my niece has a hearing disability? It feels so cruel to say it that way, but it saved her.

I got a secret message from Bear of all people. He's been filling his time looking into psychology to try and help people. He's a truly changed man from the boy who got reaped years ago. He wants to help Teff on her path to... well, recovery or whatever thing is closest to it. Looks like Teff has something to look forward to on her Tour and during the next summer when the Games return.

I guess my weekly journal entry is getting kind of long here. I'll just summarise it all by saying I'd do anything for my niece. Even getting her onto an official hover ball team. It'll be her gift for Capitolmas in December.

Hoping for a better Panem than the one we have now.

\- Mizar Aldjoy

* * *

"I guess anybody can win the Games," Katniss let out a breath. "A boy with dwarfism, a deaf girl and you've heard about Snag. Just about anybody could win, really."

"Anybody besides those younger than fourteen," Peeta said, his tone soft. "At least Mizar didn't lose his niece. It must have been a relief for him."

"That much is obvious," Katniss agreed.

The pair moved on down the street and pretty soon they came to the next face on the side walk. A particularly attractive young woman looked back at the, her smart and coy eyes covered with half moon glasses while her hair looking long and glossy, flowing down past her shoulders. She looked serious and alert.

"Crimson Flanders," Peeta read, pausing to think for a moment. "I think I once heard she had an IQ somewhere above two hundred."

"You sure pay more attention to victor trivia than I ever did," Katniss replied, quirking up one of her eyebrows.

* * *

And there we have it, Teff makes it home safe and sound, and Mizar can breath a serious sigh of relief. As I said, the POV of a deaf tribute is quite interesting to work with, so I can only hope that you guys think Teff turned out as more of a hit than a miss. In any case, many more victors still to come so stay tuned for more! ^_^

* * *

 **Stats**

 **District 1:** Peridot Gaudy (8th Games), Crystal McCree (14th Games), Bronze Marley (19th Games), Crown Martins (24th Games)

 **District 2:** Baron Overwhill (4th Games), Runa Peace (7th Games), Olga Machete (10th Games), Rook Valiant (17th Games), Boulder Atherston (20th Games), Vercingetorix Carnby (25th Games), Dragon Batofel (27th Games)

 **District 3:** Honorius Perthshire (5th Games), Pi Orbit (22nd Games)

 **District 4:** Museida Selkirk (3rd Games), Mags Flanagan (11th Games), Tide Luther (23rd Games)

 **District 5:** Shunt Gaspar (12th Games), Isobel Sparks (18th Games)

 **District 6:** N/A

 **District 7:** Pliny Aransio (2nd Games), Fir Buzz (9th Games), Jack Tylos (21st Games)

 **District 8:** Woof Casino (16th Games)

 **District 9:** Mizar Aldjoy (1st Games), Gwenith Rosebud (13th Games), Teff Withers (28th Games)

 **District 10:** Stallion March (26th Games)

 **District 11:** Bear Redfoot (15th Games)

 **District 12:** Duke Saint-Rose (6th Games)


	30. Crimson Flanders

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Hunger Games. They belong to Suzanne Collins.

 **Note:** Back again with another Victor. The third decade is getting so, so close to the end now and I am certainly motivated to finish up with it. Might not take me ages to get us to #30 and the absolute mayhem beyond it. Oh, you'll see what I mean soon... but until then, here's #29 on the list of Victors!

* * *

Katniss and Peeta looked down at the image of Crimson imprinted upon the concrete ground, silent in respect for a few moments.

"So, she was smart then?" Katniss asked.

"Yeah, so I hear anyway. Apparently she could recite pi to around four hundred digits and all of her schoolwork achieved absolutely perfect marks. One in a billion chance of being so brainy, I think," Peeta crossed his arms, uncertain. "Not sure what became of her. Never heard her name attached to amazing discoveries."

"Let's be honest, the Capitol would have just stolen all the credit anyway," Katniss replied, her frown quick to return. "They steal lives, not so hard to imagine them stealing credit."

"Yeah, I... can't really argue with that at all," Peeta admitted. "Still, perfect classwork... have to respect that."

* * *

 **29th Annual Hunger Games**

 **Name:** Crimson Flanders

 **Gender:** Female

 **District:** 5

 **Age:** 18

 **Kills:** 2

* * *

 **BRAINS**

In District Five education is everything. One's brainpower is the only thing that will get them anywhere in life, the industry of Power being so complex, vital and potentially dangerous that without good grades or a family business the only other option was to join a gang. Numerous gangs were on the prowl along the streets after hours, generally looking for food or trouble. The fights were sometimes even as bloody as those within the arena during Hunger Games season.

Crimson, the eldest of the six Flanders siblings, was not somebody with any plans to join a gang. Her brains and ambition was to lead her right to the top of the job totem and to the cosy desk job of an executive overseer at one of the top power plants, such as Plant 4 or Plant 9. Her perfect grades were certainly keeping the odds in her favour for her dreams to come true.

Some claim it was immensely dedicated study habits that kept Crimson knowing seemingly everything. A few claimed that she was somehow finding a way to cheat. There were even some that thought she was actually an android who had access to a limitless database.

In truth Crimson didn't really know how to explain her vast knowledge. She just 'knew'. If it meant getting a perfect job to keep her family well cared for then she'd always have the knowledge in mind when it mattered most.

It was a week after her eighteenth birthday, just shy of a month before the Twenty Ninth Hunger Games, when her final results came back. Her teacher, Professor Nordscov, beamed with pride as he set the file down onto her desk.

"Open it," he said, giving an encouraging nod.

Crimson did so, her pretty face lighting up like one of the thousands of nodes and bulbs at the power plants when she saw her overall final grades.

A's all around. A flawless 100% record, unheard of in all the history of Panem. A sure-fire ticket to the easy life, even in a place within the Districts.

"Sir, is this... are these marks accurate?" Crimson whispered, her hands ever so slightly shaking.

"Want to take a guess? You've never been wrong about anything before," Professor Nordscov gave a grin to his favourite student. "Congratulations."

While normally firm, mature and quite the calm bookworm the fact was that even Crimson had no way to resist breaking out into a victory dance after this kind of good news. After a groove of triumph the genius realised that she was still in class for the next hour.

Her classmates were all smirking, having seen Crimson doing her dance.

"Uh, well... just as expected. Only normal to get such results after studying so much," Crimson said, awkwardly coughing. "So, what did you guys get for question four? It took me about two seconds to see it was seventy point six three zero two degrees."

The class laughed and Crimson sighed. Perhaps the one thing she didn't know was how to be the most popular person around. Or, perhaps, how to respond to popularity and attention. She was a girl that liked the quiet life. A good book and some fine coffee was all she needed to be happy.

* * *

 **BEAUTY**

Crimson wasn't merely the 'smart girl'. It was true enough that she was also seen as one of the beauties of Five. The combination of her polite manners, soft smile, sunset orange hair and big bust were a few factors that led to a lot of people having crushes on her. Some crushes were merely phases that went away. Others were long lasting.

Crimson didn't mind the attention at all, though had made clear she wasn't looking for romance until after school was over and she had a proper position at the top of the totem in one of the power plants. As luck would have it, she had scored a brilliant job over in Plant 4 that was due to start at the end of July.

All she needed to do was get past her final reaping.

After the reaping, well, she looked forward to what the future would hold. A glance at Handlurr over in the eighteen year old boys' section and his mature, freckly, glasses covered face had her all the more eager for the future to arrive.

"Crimson Flanders!" trilled the escort, this year dressed to literally resemble a handbag.

Crimson was pale faced, terror in her eyes as she slowly walked to the stage and mounted it. She had good grades, a job, a crush of her own... life was perfect!

It wasn't fair! She had never rebelled, not once!

Crimson looked at the crowd pleadingly, silently begging somebody to take her place. Alas, as was the norm, nobody moved a muscle and her fate was sealed. The escort remarked how nice it was to have a pretty tribute 'for once' and pranced over to reap the male tribute.

Crimson didn't know it, but later on when the reaping recaps came on she caught the attention of one of the mentors. One of those who wasn't Shunt or her own mentor Isobel. On the tribute train for District One the male tribute, Marble, watched the TV with his mentor, making notes on the stand-outs.

When Bronze Marley saw Crimson on the stage he couldn't help but smirk at the sight he was seeing.

"Now _there's_ a looker," Bronze remarked, sipping from his fancy martini. "Not bad, not bad at all."

"Pervert," Peridot scoffed as she passed by the sofa, a thick comic book under her arm. "Get your mind out of the swamp. Besides, she's gonna die soon anyway."

"Eh, I guess so," Bronze shrugged, hardly listening.

"And anyway, she'll go to Five after that so... yeah, don't be a creep you creep," Peridot concluded her statement by scowling at Bronze and sitting crossed legged as she began to read the new issue of Pumpkin Man.

Bronze continued to watch Crimson, pondering to himself. After a while the braggart slowly began to smirk an idea forming in his mind.

A late night phone call to his good friend Coriolanus Snow was all it took to pitch a disgusting, greedy idea on the off chance that Crimson ended up winning the Games that year.

"Just think of it. All the profit, all the control... all I ask in return is a share of the rewards every now and then," Bronze had said, relaxing in a recliner with his sunglasses on.

"Bronze... you're a genius," Snow had replied, a sinister look upon his face as he sat at his desk in the Capitol. "Consider it in motion. If not this year, another one very soon. I'm sure Orion would find this idea brilliant."

It had been a dark day once upon a time when shortly after the first Quell Bronze had spoken to Orion, suggesting he give his best mate Snow an intern position. Orion choosing to grant his favourite Victor this boon had led to Snow being one of several who answered to the President and bought him news, events and ideas.

That dark day was about to show off its true scope of darkness at long last. It was inevitable due to what Snow would bring to the meeting the next day...

Crimson knew nothing of this, simply taking an early night to get all the tears out. She vowed that, come sunrise, she was going to think her way through the Games and claw her hard earned life back inch by bloody inch.

* * *

 **BRAINS**

Crimson knew she was skilled, but that meant nothing if she could not fight. Alas, with only a few days to learn the life saving skills the odds were not really in favour of her becoming some kind of a barbarian warrior.

It was when she was halfway through her cornflakes that an idea struck her. She needed an alliance to counter the annual career pack and find a way to make the careers themselves start to lose their trust and alliance coordination.

As she entered the elevator alongside her fifteen year old district partner, a boy by the name of Klank, she knew what to do. Of course, that was after pitching an alliance to Klank right away. Time was of the essence.

Crimson spent the morning breezing through the survival tests and other such training exercises with perfect scores. It wasn't like she had expected any less of herself. But as she trained hard she kept an eye on everybody else, picking out good prospects for allies and keeping a track on the Careers.

It was soon clear that the boy from Six, the pair from Seven and the girl from Eleven were the best alliance members available to her this year. It was also notable that the girls from One and Two were not getting along, much to the exasperation of their male counterparts.

After spending lunchtime laying her cards on the table and making the alliance offer – something that Asphalt from Six, Roey and Betti from Seven and Viner from Eleven had all been willing to agree to – Crimson moved forth with her next plan, one that she had Klank, Roey and Viner helping her out with.

With her allies keeping watch on the career girls – the safety warning, naturally, was to loudly complain about having a leg cramp – Crimson carefully swiped the token of Garter from One's back pocket. Crimson hardly spared a glance at the family pendent in her hand as she placed it lightly into the pocket of Sarli from Two.

Nobody saw her do it. However, everybody saw – and heard – when Garter realised her token was gone. The pretty One girl screamed and snarled, demanding that the thief who took it give it back or she'd kill them where they stood.

"I don't have it," Crimson said, turning out her empty pockets. "I've been looking at edible plants all day."

"Yeah, she has," Klank added, turning out his own pockets.

Garter surveyed the Fives chillingly, soon moving on to demand all of the Outliers turn their pockets out in case they had stolen her token. Obviously, not one among them had the blasted thing. When Marble turned out his own pockets, as if to prove his obvious innocence, Garter rounded on the Twos.

All it took was Tyr showing his empty pockets for Garter to tackle Sarli to the ground, a fist fight breaking out about half a nanosecond later. The screams had everybody on edge as the Peacekeepers moved in to separate the powerful girls, both now sporting a black eye and Sarli having a bloody lip.

"Give it back!" Garter snarled. "Peacekeepers, reach into her pockets!"

One of the men in white shrugged and did as he was requested. To his surprise and Sarli's own he held the missing pendant in his hand.

The fight resumed pretty quickly after that. As she observed the fight getting more and more intense Crimson crossed her arms, nodding to herself in satisfaction. The Careers were weakened alright, just as she had planned.

* * *

 **BEAUTY**

If there was one thing Crimson could do without, aside being reaped in the first place, it was the fact her stylist had chosen to put her in a fairly exotic, provocative cocktail dress for the interviews. Standing backstage with the other tributes had her feeling all too exposed, a feeling of shame and embarrassment running through her.

"Stop staring," she muttered, looking away from the career boys and the pair from Nine. "Seriously, that's gross. Stop!"

For one quick moment Crimson felt relieved as she was called up for her own interview, finally away from the tributes who had spent some of their last guaranteed night alive ogling her. She then realised that now the entire Capitol – indeed, the whole nation! - were going to be seeing her in the tiny dress.

Well, if that was their game then she'd give them a whole new sort of game to focus on.

And so, for her interview, Crimson sat calmly and professionally as she talked about chess in fine detail. Caesar found himself enthralled in what she had been saying, all the trivia, the game meta and how it was possible for the game to be won in just three moves. Fascinating! He'd never known that, but now that he did he was sure to never ever lose another match of chess!

Crimson left the stage to a lot of genuine applause. One catcall was among the many cheers, drowned out by the support of the citizens.

Had Crimson heard it and turned back she would have seen Bronze was the culprit, slapped a moment later by Peridot.

* * *

 **BRAINS**

The tributes were launched into the arena with uniforms that had their arms and legs open to the air this year. As their launch plates rose up and clicked into place it all became clear why their clothes were so thin.

The hot sun blared down upon them from up above and water came halfway towards their knees. It was a scorching summer day, one ruined entirely by the fact the tributes were forced to spend it trapped inside a massive concrete maze that had been semi flooded. Even the pretty golden colour of the walls didn't raise any of the dampened spirits of the tributes.

Crimson was fully focused on her goal, the Cornucopia. Of course, part of her focus was elsewhere too; she had to faintly smirk in satisfaction when Garter and Sarli began to shout at each other from their pedestals. With two Careers distracted it would be easy to run in and grab some supplies; with her alliance having each been assigned a different task to focus on she felt that things were starting to get dragged back in her favour once more.

But plans only mattered if they worked. Crimson readied herself to charge in as soon as the gong rang, keen to show Panem what a perfectly graded student could do.

The gong rang and the mayhem began.

Due to the inability for the career girls to work together it made it easy for the Outliers to charge in and have only half the normal danger to deal with. Marble and Tyr gave it their all to start hacking and slashing, but with only two of them in the thick of things and an alliance of six moving around with precision amongst the chaos it proved hard for them to make a large number of kills. Meanwhile Roey and Viner took advantage of the lack of career teamwork to slay Sarli.

When the dust settled with the final screams of Asphalt fading away into gurgles within the water seventeen tributes remained alive in the maze. Crimson led her alliance of five in various random directions, often pausing to mark a line on the wall by pathways they did not go down.

"Why are you doing that?" Betti asked after the eighth time Crimson marked a wall with the chalk she had swiped from the Cornucopia.

"The careers and solos might think people went down the marked paths. It'll keep them away from us for a while," Crimson replied. "They can't kill us if they can't find us."

"They can't, but mutts sure can," Klank said, gulping.

"That's why there are six... uh, five of us and we all have weapons," Crimson replied. "Try to aim for their eyes. A blind mutt is normally not an accurate mutt."

"And if they have no eyes?" Roey asked.

"The heart, of course," Crimson said, marking another pathway. "C'mon, this way. The silence is promising."

* * *

 **BEAUTY**

While most arenas of the Hunger Games would result in everybody looking all kinds of filthy even before their near-certain deaths, the flooded maze of the Twenty Ninth Games was an exception. The general lack of any dirt combined with the water – which, as one may imagine, became pleasantly warm due to the sunlight – made it easy for the tributes to keep themselves clean.

On the fifth day in the maze – when thirteen tributes remained alive after the death of the boy from Ten three hours prior – Crimson spent some of her afternoon bathing in a particularly deep and warm section of the watery maze, one cast in the glow of the sunlight, and cleaned herself off until she felt almost like her old self again.

"Parachute," Roey said, pointing upwards.

"Another? That's five since I started washing myself." Crimson raised an eyebrow, confused. "I'll not say no to sponsors, though they kind of give away our location. We'll have to move on soon."

Crimson looked over her sponsored gift – one full loaf of a luxurious brand of buttered honey bread – and smiled. She figured that her brainpower must have really impressed the nation, taking a content bite from the delectable gift.

What Crimson was unaware of, especially as she and her allies began to run through the maze away from a nasty land shark sort of mutt, was that several of the sponsors were supporting her for reasons entirely unrelated to her brains.

Spurned on by Bronze and Snow's whispers of their idea here and there they sponsored Crimson out of pure desire, lust and greed. The two men sat in a bar watching the Games on TV, joining the cheers when the land shark caught Viner and began to tear her to shreds.

"It almost seems like you'd rather Five won this year than One," Snow remarked, clinking his glass to Bronze's own.

"I'd say it's about equal," Bronze replied, chuckling almost good naturedly to his best friend. "I benefit either way, just in different kinds of ways you know? More proof I'm awesome, winning when my own District loses."

"I can't deny that," Snow said, laughing.

* * *

 **BRAINS**

After ten days in the maze it was clear to all that Crimson's plan to mark the pathways her alliance had not gone down was working effectively. The careers had been unable to track them down since the start and had been lucky to find even the most loud and obvious Outliers. The lack of any real progress and Marble almost dying after an attack from a second land shark mutt had the careers feeling miserable.

Crimson's alliance, however, were well sustained by sponsors. For the first time in her life Crimson did not have a certain answer for this, but didn't question their good fortune.

"We must really be popular," Roey remarked, sipping from a bottle of cherry flavoured water.

"I guess the Capitol likes it when a smart alliance pops up that can challenge the career pack," Crimson replied. "Now, careful with that water, we need to make it last."

"There's water all over the maze," Roey said, shrugging.

"True, but watch it turn out to be poisonous in large doses or something to that effect," Crimson replied, letting her hair out from its ponytail and picking away a few specks of dirt from within. "Can't be too careful."

"Just too bad really that we can't do what Runa did years ago and climb on top of the walls," Klank added from his spot at the back of the pack, sighing.

Klank was right. This year the Gamemakers wanted to ensure nobody would try and repeat Runa's winning tactic from the word go and had added a forcefield to the top of the maze walls, one that would prove fatal to anybody who touched it. It was why Betti was dead and only three members of Crimson's alliance were still alive, after all.

By now nine tributes were still moving around the large maze; two alliances of three and three stragglers. The suspense could only keep the Capitolites amused for so long before they began to get annoyed and so that is why - around an hour after Crimson had been sponsored a bladed metal whip by a very rich sponsor who always sided with District Five – the Gamemakers decided to interfere with things.

The first move made was to split up the alliances of three, a feat easily accomplished by making the water become powerful and almost like rapids followed by raising a few new walls into the arena.

The second move was to send a crocodile mutt after each remaining tribute and not call them off until three cannons had fired. It wasn't long at all before the final cries of the girl from Four faded away, replaced by a cannon shot as the vicious reptile tore off her upper half in one unceremonious chomp.

While the seven others battled against their own monstrous opponents to varying degrees of success and deathly failure, Crimson was soon cornered upon a pile of rubble in a dead end with her shirt torn. The crocodile widened its maw, as if grinning.

"Wanna take a bite?" Crimson asked. "Ok, chew on this!"

Crimson swung her whip at the crocodile, the cord getting entangled upon the teeth of the mutt. Before the mutt could do anything aside from hiss in frustration Crimson threw the metal handle of the whip up above her and took cover.

Sparks flew.

The current of the forcefield charged down the metal whip and fried the mutt to death in a matter of seconds as well as super charging all the water in the vicinity. When Crimson descended back down into the water a few minutes later it was to much applause and cheering from the viewers in the Capitol and in Five.

Orion and the Gamemakers were all quite pissed off that the forcefield had been weaponized against the mutt. But when the Gamemakers offered to spawn ten crocodiles at once to ensure her death he merely shook his head.

"The audience love her," he had said, shrugging as he poured himself a drink. "Let them have what they want."

"But can we really just let her get away with that?" Head Gamemaker Fjordar had replied.

"Like I said, we give the audience what they want," Orion insisted. He smirked, raising his glass. "As it stands, they want her. All of her. Either she wins and they own her, or she dies and the problem dies with her. No issue here."

And with that, the matter was dropped. Crimson knew nothing of this, of course. She spent the rest of the day searching for her allies, her heart dropping when the anthem that night confirmed the death of not only Garter and the girl from Four, but also Roey.

* * *

 **BEAUTY**

By the time just three tributes were left in the arena on the thirteenth day of the Games the betting was getting insanely explosive and frantic, with each of the tributes having their supporters. Marble had many fans as a boy from One typically would and Klank had his own fanbase cheering him on towards the victory that couldn't be far away for any of the finalists now.

But Crimson had hands down the most support. Even with sponsor prices soaring and hardly anything being sent into the arena anymore she still got at least a single bottle of water sent to her every day. Naturally, it was lemon flavoured – her favourite, of course.

The Gamemakers used the current of the water and their power to raise and adjust the maze walls to gradually lead the last three tributes together for the final battle. Bronze and Snow watched from the living room of Orion's mansion as the tributes got ever closer. Four guards had guns pointed their way as a precaution due to being seated with the President of Panem, but by this point they were unfazed by it given the distractions of the TV and the fine wine.

"So, what do you think will happen men?" Orion stretched out, relaxing.

"Two kids will die," Snow said, chuckling.

"Two insects," Orion corrected. "But, more or less correct. What do you think Bronze?"

"Either District One wins or I get a personal victory," Bronze chuckled, giving a playful shrug. "I don't see myself losing."

"Unless the boy from Five wins," Snow added, frowning. He ran a hand through his blonde hair. "That would mess things up."

"I'll take care of it. I gain nothing if he wins anyway and I always thought his eyes were ugly," Orion picked up a phone, lazily dialling a number. "Kill the District Five male."

Not even a minute later Klank's cannon fired, the crocodiles leaving very little left of the poor boy. Bronze and Snow applauded as the President took a short bow.

"You know, you boys are alright," Orion remarked, relaxing once again. "Bronze, you've always been a decent Victor. And Snow... I feel you may be getting close to a promotion."

"I'd be honoured to received it, sir," Snow said, smiling.

The trio relaxed as they continued to watch the remainder of the Games play out. Bronze was especially invested, a sick sort of grin crossing his face as the last two tributes closed in on each other.

"Come on, come on," Bronze muttered. "You're nearly there."

Nobody ever knew if he was referring to Marble or Crimson.

* * *

 **BRAINS**

The fight was vicious and frantic, the combination of the maze walls and the water making it hard for the tributes to dodge each other's powerful attacks and remain balanced. The Gamemakers had chosen to switch off the forcefield above the maze, hoping to ensure Crimson could not repeat her earlier trick for an easy victory.

That trick may have been out the window, but that did not mean that Crimson was out of ideas. Her whip kept Marble from narrowing the gap and using his sword, an accomplishment that bought her some precious time. Just enough time in fact to come up with a final idea of how to take out her opponent. Something that was common knowledge.

She stopped trying to strike Marble at his chest, head and arms. Instead, she started to strike the nasty whip towards his boot covered feet. The first strike took him off guard and from there it only required two more strikes for the whip to get around his ankle so that he could be knocked to the ground and into the water.

Crimson took deep, frantic breaths as she tried not to focus on the fact she was holding a fellow human being under the water. She only loosened her grip a few seconds after the cannon had fired and the trumpets began to ring out.

Crimson staggered up, leaning against the maze wall with a dazed, broken and shell-shocked sort of look in her eyes. As the ladder of the hovercraft came down to take her out of the flooded maze she spotted a nearby camera built into the wall and gave it a short, smart nod.

"It was common sense, really," she told the nation watching her. "As you'll learn in school, or just while out and about, human cannot breath underwater."

Nobody could argue this fact. It was something that would be proven again and again in the Hunger Games as the decades went by.

* * *

 **BEAUTY**

The after-party of the Hunger Games was a massive spectacle just as it was every year. Shunt and Isobel were especially pleased to finally have a third victor join them in the Victor Village of District Five. It seemed that for once there were no extremely toxic feelings aside the norm, given the way Crown and Isobel casually talked by the snack table and both Shunt and Crystal exchanged fedoras as had become something of a tradition between them.

Things seemed alright, but that was certainly due for a terrible change.

Crimson casually sat at a table, enjoying a few drinks and the fine food. She'd had her life clawed away and she clawed it right back for herself. It seemed, despite the shitty month she'd suffered, things were going to more or less go back to normal and on course for the future she'd built towards for so long.

Too bad things were about to be clawed away from her once again.

"Meet me in the hedge maze in an hour," Bronze said as he passed by her table. "President's orders, can't really say no to that guy. Trust me, nobody wants to do that Victor or not."

Crimson didn't know Bronze at all – beyond how Peridot thought he was a tool – and so didn't think anything much of it. If he wanted to get angry that she killed his tribute then so be it.

She met with him as requested an hour later and, at his polite request, began to take a walk through the maze with him. When asked about the chances of getting lost he only chuckled.

"The Capitol would never let a Victor disappear," he replied. "Anyway, I'll get right on to the point. It could've been Orion who said this or maybe one of his ministers or interns, but as it stands... lucky me got the role to be the bearer of news."

"Oh, really? And what kind of news is that?" Crimson asked, uncertain. "Because if you're angry that I killed Marble-."

"I couldn't care less," Bronze interrupted, shrugging. "I've lost a few tributes by now, it doesn't really bug me if this one didn't make it home. Win some, lose some. Trust me, you'll get used to that when you start to mentor people. Oh, on that note, try not to get attached to them."

"I guess that makes sense," Crimson said, slowing her pace. "So what is it then?"

"Well, let me play it all on the table. You know how the Capitol likes pretty things, yeah?" Bronze began, leaving the question hanging for a moment.

"Yes, I do. So?" Crimson raised an eyebrow.

"That includes you, and not just because you're a popular victor after that thing with the whip and the forcefield," Bronze chuckled. "See, all those sponsors? People think you're beautiful and frankly I gotta agree with them."

"...Ok, why is this relevant?" Crimson took a step back, starting to look slightly unnerved.

"Lots of people basically invested in your victory and, you know, your life," Bronze continued, casually giving a pebble a light kick. "So, they want return on that investment."

"...I don't follow," Crimson said, slowly.

"That must be a first, right?" Bronze chuckled. "Basically, they want to have sex with you."

Crimson's horrified gasp was hardly the worst sound she would let out that night. She paled, looking absolutely stricken.

"What?! No way, that is completely out of line, totally unacceptable! I don't know them!" Crimson stammered for a moment. "I refuse, they'll just have to find some other way to be entertained."

"Sure, nobody's forcing you," Bronze shrugged, casually starting to walk away. He paused, slowly turning around. "Oh, but Orion thought you'd say that. That guy thinks ahead, huh? He said if you don't do it then all of your family will be killed. Just like that."

At the word 'that' Bronze snapped his fingers and Crimson almost had a heart attack.

"What... I, what... why... no..." Crimson stammered, about ready to pass out. Her face was covered in a cold sweat, tears in her eyes and her face white as a sheet.

"Say no and they die. Say yes and they live. I know what I'd chose," Bronze tucked his hands in his pockets, rocking back and forth on his heels. "So, what's it gonna be? One client is pretty interested in a 'trial run' tonight."

It took only one moment of thinking about her beloved family – her dear, doting parents and her five precious little brothers and sisters – for Crimson to sob and nod her head.

"So be it," she whispered, looking about ready to throw up.

"Wonderful," Bronze said, moving over to shake Crimson's hand. "Don't worry, considering you're alive and all the amazing things the Capitol gives its favourite Victors all the time you're gonna enjoy this. Being a Victor is amazing."

"...Who is the first client?" Crimson spoke in barely a whisper, shaking like a leaf.

"Me," Bronze said, winking as he made finger guns. "My idea, actually. C'mere, stupid sexy Flanders."

Sobs were not the only sounds that came from the maze that night.

* * *

 **BRAINS**

In District Five the citizens know her as a genius, a damn good mentor, a reliable friend and a wonderful occasional guest speaker in schools here and there.

They don't know why she is always crying.

* * *

 **BEAUTY**

In the Capitol they know her as a beautiful women, one who will do anything behind closed doors and whom always gives those who buy her company a wonderful, passionate, refreshing night.

They don't know why she is always crying.

* * *

"I guess in some arenas the brain cuts more than a sword does," Peeta said, crossing his arms.

"...What?" Katniss said, confused.

"Um, nevermind. Just being theatrical... let's just move on," Peeta replied, embarrassed.

Peeta walked on with Katniss following close behind him. The couple soon stopped about a dozen or so paces further up the street and came to the next face upon the ground. A girl with her hair in a particularly fancy pair of braids looked back at them, her expression somewhat anxious and her cheeks a bit sallow.

"Paige Murphy," Peeta said, looking the face over.

"She seems anxious alright," Katniss mused.

* * *

Yeah, the whole 'victors get prostituted' thing is like my overall least fav aspect of HG canon in all honestly? Of course, I am a stickler for canon facts and thus I knew I'd have to bring it up at some point, so... yeah, here we are! That was Crimson and boy, her tale sure made me feel so... I guess 'wrong' as I writing it? Emotional, perhaps strongly so, but ick all the same. Bronze and Snow are rising in power, and Orion still rules the roost... how long may this last? Stay tuned for more, the 3rd decade of the Games is nearly over!

* * *

 **Stats**

 **District 1:** Peridot Gaudy (8th Games), Crystal McCree (14th Games), Bronze Marley (19th Games), Crown Martins (24th Games)

 **District 2:** Baron Overwhill (4th Games), Runa Peace (7th Games), Olga Machete (10th Games), Rook Valiant (17th Games), Boulder Atherston (20th Games), Vercingetorix Carnby (25th Games), Dragon Batofel (27th Games)

 **District 3:** Honorius Perthshire (5th Games), Pi Orbit (22nd Games)

 **District 4:** Museida Selkirk (3rd Games), Mags Flanagan (11th Games), Tide Luther (23rd Games)

 **District 5:** Shunt Gaspar (12th Games), Isobel Sparks (18th Games), Crimson Flanders (29th Games)

 **District 6:** N/A

 **District 7:** Pliny Aransio (2nd Games), Fir Buzz (9th Games), Jack Tylos (21st Games)

 **District 8:** Woof Casino (16th Games)

 **District 9:** Mizar Aldjoy (1st Games), Gwenith Rosebud (13th Games), Teff Withers (28th Games)

 **District 10:** Stallion March (26th Games)

 **District 11:** Bear Redfoot (15th Games)

 **District 12:** Duke Saint-Rose (6th Games)


	31. Paige Murphy

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Hunger Games. They belong to Suzanne Collins.

 **Note:** Here we are, the last Victor of the third decade of the Hunger Games. I'll admit, the initial idea came from how in canon Peeta once said the arena could be anything, possibly even a giant cake. Well, it made me wonder if an arena could possibly be edible and... well, yeah. Hope you all enjoy the madness I came up with here. :D

* * *

Katniss and Peeta looked at Paige's imprinted face upon the ground for a few moments. Katniss turned to Peeta, noticing he seemed to be thinking deeply.

"Something on your mind?" Katniss asked.

"Well, it's a strange thing. See, remember I once said how an arena could be a cake?" Peeta said, a humourless chuckle passing his lips.

"Yeah, I guess so? I figured you were just joking," Katniss replied.

"I was. But the thing is that there was an arena around this time, so they say, that was kind of edible," Peeta explained, slowly shaking his head in bewilderment. "I was just wondering if it was Paige's arena."

"I guess we can ask once we reach the party," Katniss said, looking down at Paige's face again. "Know anything about Paige?"

"Nothing besides the fact her family apparently were pretty well off and owned a big clothing brand within Eight," Peeta said. "I guess she must have been rich or something."

"She seems almost like she's starving," Katniss said, looking unsure. "Any idea why?"

"I've got nothing," Peeta said, giving a light shrug in response.

* * *

 **30th Annual Hunger Games**

 **Name:** Paige Murphy

 **Gender:** Female

 **District:** 8

 **Age:** 16

 **Kills:** 1

* * *

District Eight is known for the many, many factories that fill up the land within its borders and all the poor working conditions inside them. Few in Panem and a grand total of zero people within Eight could claim to have not even a small idea of how bad things can get at the best of times. The heat, the intense working speed, the machinery that would often break down or cause a grievous injury to a worker that would inevitably land them on a street where they'd sing for their supper.

One could go on for hours telling stories of factory work and what it's like to be among the lower, and even middle, classes of the textiles District of Panem. The cramped space, the terrible jobs, the endless factory accidents... it's a long list of calamity and general mood ruining hopelessness.

But somebody has to own the factories the lower social classes work in and while the Capitol more or less owns everything up to and including the air, the deeds of ownership specifically go to the upper class families of Eight. Nothing like the elite of the Capitol and of the Flawless Estate in District One, but certainly well off people. If one were to own a factory or a clothing brand – or, if fate happened to bless them, both – then life in District Eight was a lot more bearable.

It was the factory owners that balanced budgets instead of working with dangerous equipment. It was brand owners that came up with the ideas and designs for the clothes instead of just following a carefully laid out stitching plan.

It was people like Paige Murphy that had very different issues than people like little Susie at number one poverty street who starved during the last winter. So sad, so tragic.

It wasn't money that was a concern for her. The Murphy family were quite well off from being the owners of a pair of very productive factories.

It wasn't work that was a concern for her. The fact her family owned a popular brand of button-up shirts and fancy bow-ties had her easily being put into work sketching out design plans.

It wasn't a lack of friends that was a concern for her. She had her own social group at school; a small one, but nonetheless a pack of boys and girls she felt comfortable bing with.

It was something a bit more physical that left her in distress.

* * *

She first heard the diagnosis in the office of the family doctor, Mister Garrord. The clock had been ticking down the time until the reaping that loomed a week away, the muted and subtitled TV in the corner had shown Orion speaking of something or other and clearly showing signs of ageing, the weather outside the window had been cloudy but not badly so.

The face of Mister Garrord had been grave, sympathetic and serious.

Anorexia. Bulimia. Two words he had spoken which had Paige reeling in purest shock.

Paige sat in her seat, stunned. This couldn't be true, could it? The doctor had to have made a mistake, everybody knew even doctors were not infallible! Was she a skinny girl? Perhaps, but then so were plenty of others in the District like those who worked at her family's factories. Maybe she did sometimes worry over how others perceived her, but didn't everybody really?

Paige shook her head. It wasn't like she'd skipped meals here and there and maybe rarely everywhere or had ever thrown up after a dinner party and... oh.

 _ **Oh**_.

With a shaking hand Paige had continued listening to the doctor, feeling more and more gloomy with every passing second. It all made sense, it all added up so horribly perfectly.

She had a serious problem.

Paige left the office with her head in the clouds and the assurance that bi-weekly appointments would be organised. Her head wasn't just in clouds, but gloomy storm clouds like no others. Thoughts that were simply rife with anxiety, self-loathing and purest shame plagued her for the whole walk home and well into the evening.

As Paige laid herself on her cushy bed, staring up at the ceiling, she made a vow to get her life back on track no matter how bad she felt about her looks.

Despite her vow, she couldn't bring herself to eat more than half of the fine meal her mother made for her. Paige sniffled in shame and her mother sobbed in fear for her frail daughter's safety.

* * *

The Hunger Games had a habit of getting in the way of everybody's personal plans whether it was a date, a family event or merely staying alive. The Games and the Capitol's bloodlust waited for nothing and nobody, not even a girl needed help for her eating disorder.

That's why on reaping day one of the five slips with Paige's name on it was pulled by the escort (this year dressed like a pineapple of all things...) and she became the female tribute for the year. The escort looked disappointed to have such a skinny girl as one of his tributes and felt somewhat better when the male tribute, an eighteen year old known as Stringer, was notably bulky.

Woof said nothing, per the norm. It was hard to get a word out of him at the best of times. He just looked at his tributes without making a comment, wondering how they'd die and wondering moreso if they were as repulsed by him as most of the District was.

Paige was deathly silent in the Judgement Building, hardly responding as her parents held her close. With how frail she was the odds were simply not looking to be in her favour.

"I know this is a hard thing to ask. It feels wrong to say it after your diagnoses, Paige," her father sighed, picking his words carefully. "In most years the Hunger Games go on for a fair while. You need to try and put on some weight before the arena, or you may end up starving to death once it begins."

Paige looked horrified at the thought. She gulped, nausea starting to overcome her at the thought of what lay ahead before and during the Games, and mumbled that she promised she would try her best.

The idea of eating so much was a terrible concept, but between that and being dead... Paige knew what the lesser of two evils was going to be.

She wondered if she'd die of fear before even reaching the Capitol.

* * *

The table laden with all sorts of luxurious Capitol foods frightened Paige almost as much as the vicious, powerful careers seen on the reaping recap. Almost. The presence of a career boy from District Four and a boy from Seven the crowd were glad to see gone tilted things in favour of the other tributes scaring Paige the most.

All the same, the sight of the glazed, fatty, sugary food was a sickly sight for her to bare witness to. There was so much of it, and the food was served in huge portions. She winced as the escort laid out food for her and placed it down in front of her upon a pristine porcelain bowl.

"Eat," the escort shook his head, frowning. "You can't expect to last long if you turn down the Capitol's generosity. Most tributes eat with their hands like savages."

"That's because they're starving," Stringer said, cutting his steak with a knife and fork. "You take everything and leave us with nothing. People due from not having enough food."

"Rotten lies," the escort hissed like a snake.

"It's all true. Why do you think my brother died over the winter?" Stringer shrugged, eating a mouthful of his steak. "I've wanted to die for a while now, so... yeah, I'm not keeping my mouth shut."

"A skeleton and a mouthy brat. Why oh why did I ask for that promotion from Ten," the escort groaned and soon let out a dramatic sob.

Woof remained silent, as if used to seeing this kind of incident year after year. The fact was that, in a general sense, he truly was.

Horrendously uncomfortable and wishing so hard to be somewhere else, Paige forced herself to eat the entirety of her meal. Shuddering as she finished off the incredibly buttery mash potatoes she had to repeatedly remind herself that it was this or dying.

"Just a small meal, just a small meal. Not fattening at all," Paige whispered to herself. "Just think of something else, anything else at all."

And so, she did. In this case she thought of the arts; specifically, dancing. In the long, painful hours of hunger and the agony of doubting her own self-worth Paige would often dance around her large family home. Whether it was ballet in her room, a ballroom performance in the hallways or a rave routine in the back yard Paige displayed competence and passion when in the midst of a dance routine. It was her escape from the harsh world she was in, an act where she did not feel as though she was always being judged.

The only issue was how dancing wasn't an option for her here, not when she was at the same table as a judgemental Capitolite, a known rapist and a boy with the most casually suicidal mindset ever. It was shaping up to be the most uncomfortable night in quite some time and dessert hadn't even been bought out yet.

Paige could only cringe, paling at the thought of how much sugar would infest the cake, tart, pie and so forth. She didn't want any of it... but she had promised to try and so remained seated.

"...Holy snapdragons..." Paige gulped, shaking at the sight of the ten layer chocolate cake that was bought out for dessert.

* * *

Sleep was an impossibility for Paige that night, the girl too overwhelmed from sickly thoughts of dinner and her own chronic anxiety. For a time the upper class girl paced back and forth, restless and fretting over and over. For a longer time after that she danced the night away, a silent routine of ballet filling up her whole world.

Her movements were graceful and refined, all the product of years of being self-taught. As she finished with a long, constant spin and ended off in the splits Paige could only quietly sigh.

"Not good enough. Not precise enough," she said, shivering. "Never enough."

Moonlight shone through the window of her room, the pale glow basking the room in a silvery colour. Paige looked out the window at the stars, soon gazing at the moon beyond Panem.

"Must be nice, not being stuck in this cruel world," Paige muttered, wrapping her arms around herself. "Must be nice to be somewhere else and not worry what others say."

"Hello," Stringer spoke suddenly as he swung down in front of the window from the outside.

Paige shrieked, stumbling backwards onto her butt and backed herself away. She opened and closed her mouth a few times, stunned at what she was seeing. Stringer just gave a slow shrug.

"Wanna come on the roof of the train and talk?" Stringer began to haul himself upwards again. "The air is good up here."

With nothing else to do and sleep evading her Paige exited her bedroom and walked out to where the train carriages were connected. Soon enough she sat beside Stringer upon the top of the train, listening to the light howl of the wind and watching the stars.

"You ever think that we could just jump and leave them without two of their tributes? It'd be the worst Hunger Games ever wouldn't it?" Stringer remarked, gazing beyond the moon. "Imagine, two less tributes."

"Is it... really so simple?" Paige asked, unsure.

"...Let's find out," Stringer said, throwing himself off the side of the train carriage.

Before Paige could let out a shrill scream a forcefield had sent Stringer back to his spot beside her.

"Wheeeeee," he said in monotone. "I guess that explains why there's nobody dragging us off the roof. We can't kill ourselves up here."

"How convenient..." Paige trailed off, gazing at the moon once more.

"Something on your mind?" Stringer asked.

"Many somethings," Paige replied, starting to anxiously fiddle with her hair. "It's a long sort of a story."

"We have time," Stringer said, laying down to stare at the sky. "I mean, until we enter the arena at least."

And so, feeling she really had nothing left to lose, Paige talked. She spoke about the anxiety, about her eating disorder, about her ongoing fear of people judging her. Stringer didn't interrupt, simply taking it all in one morose and frantic sentence at a time.

"So, when did this all start?" he asked, curious.

"I... don't know," Paige thought to herself carefully. "Years ago? I just... I kept feeling paranoid that people were avoiding me or whispering about me. I started to try and act like the others who people liked. I made a few friends, but I keep thinking if I don't look my best they might ditch me..."

"...Do you really feel like making yourself so thin is going to make you 'look your best'?" Stringer asked.

"It's... well... it just made sense," Paige whispered. "It makes sense."

"Not to me," Stringer said, getting up to slowly pace around. "Hurting yourself isn't beautiful. Not for people you don't know and who may just think of another reason to act like mutts to you. People don't need much of a reason."

Paige didn't respond, her head hung in pure shame.

"What us people in the Districts need is therapists. Have you ever, you know, noticed that there's literally none of them?" Stringer continued. "I just think it's kind of an oversight right there."

"Therapy sounds nice," Paige mumbled.

"You sound nice," Stringer said, sitting back down. "Your voice, it's nice."

Paige squeaked, covering her face as she shyly squeaked. A few moments passed before she mumbled a thank you.

"Whenever you feel low, and once I'm not here to remind you... just tell yourself these words over and over," Stringer paused for a moment, looking Paige right in the eyes. "You are what you are, and what you are is beautiful. Say it."

"...I am what I am, and what I am is beautiful," Paige whispered.

"Good. Now say it again, but louder," Stringer ordered.

"...I am what I am, and what I am is beautiful," Paige said, a little louder.

"Keep saying that to yourself until you believe it," Stringer said, nodding. "By the way, your dancing is really good."

The pair spoke for a while longer until Paige had to turn in for the night, starting to feel truly weary. As she lay in her bed, tucked up under the warm sheets all nice and cosy while Stringer continued to leap against the forcefield outside the train, she repeated the world to herself once more as the waking world started to fade away.

"...I am what I am, and what I am is beautiful."

* * *

Paige tried to call herself beautiful as often as she needed to as the parade and training went by, but it certainly wasn't easy. Especially when the careers were prowling around and out for blood, seemingly moreso than they tended to be in a typical year. With the burly boy from Four quickly welcome into the pack and the sinister looking boy from Seven allowed entry after demonstrating his vicious techniques with an axe, Paige felt that she was looking at insurmountable odds.

"She's so beautiful," Paige whispered, looking at Peppermint from One gracefully duelling a trainer with a long sword. "I wish I was-."

"-Like her?" Stringer guessed, shaking his head. "No you don't. You know what those girls from One are normally like. You saw her threaten the kids from Twelve. Is that who you want to be?"

"...No. It's not," Paige said, giving a firm nod. "...I am what I am, and what I am is beautiful."

"Exactly," Stringer said, patting Paige on the shoulder. "Now c'mon, we should learn how to find water in the arena."

And so, they did. Paige glanced around, noting how this year there seemed to be a lot of survival stations set up. She couldn't claim to know what the training centre was normally like, of course, but it felt like there were less combat orientated stations than there should have been. She counted a mere six.

Overhearing the career pack complaining to each other about this confirmed to her that something was up, something that she intended to prepare herself for. Kneeling by the edible bugs station, she told Stringer what she had noticed.

"Seems like it must be a year where food will be hard to find, like the concrete maze in the Seventh Games," Stringer muttered, shaking his head. "My uncle died there, actually."

"Oh... sorry..." Paige trailed off, wincing.

"It's fine. At least we know what to expect... are you willing to eat a bug if it's the only food around?" Stringer asked, curious.

Paige took a deep breath, taking one of the non-poisonous beetles from the container it was it and carefully holding it up.

"I made a promise to my parents that I would try," she vowed. "I never break my word."

With that said, Paige bit into the beetle for effect with fire in her eyes. A few moments later she gagged and shrieked, spitting out the foul tasting insect as her pale cheeks turned a shade of green. Stringer could only put a hand over his eyes as the careers laughed at the sight and the Gamemakers looked on smugly.

"You look at her like she's got a problem, but you're the ones making a living off of child murder," Stringer said, casual like he were talking about the weather. "Just saying, your problems are worse."

The pair from Two looked like they were about to retaliate but as fate would have it that was when the lunch bell rang. As the tributes left the training centre Paige could only flinch, grossed out and knowing an even bigger trial loomed near.

The mere thought of the food that would be served had her frail frame shaking.

* * *

The training days were a nightmare for Paige to get through, only made possible by the fact Stringer was backing her up along the way. Of course, the interviews loomed and he couldn't be on the stage at the same time as her. Even with his give-no-fucks attitude and willingness to die, he wouldn't be able to stand there as the Peacekeepers would merely drag him off the stage in a choke-hold.

Paige felt very much alone in the hour containing down to the interviews.

"I can't do this," she gulped down a large intake of air, starting to cough and choke. "I can't talk to people... not that many... I can't... it's too many...!"

"Well, is there any way you could not have to talk to them?" Stringer asked. "...Like, seriously is there? I've got nothing to add, sorry."

Paige thought about it, pacing around until her prep team demanded that she stand still so they could start finishing off on her look for the interview up ahead.

"All of this movement and dancing around is simply not proper," tutted one of the three frog-esque prep team.

And just like that Paige had an idea. One that had even her prep team excited and eager to help out with. It was so new, so simple... so elegant!

That was why, after the wicked boy from Seven left the stage with a sneer that showed off his overbite, Caesar announced Paige to the nation and ceded the stage to her for the next few minutes, simply telling the crowd she had decided actions spoke louder than words and they were going to see if she was right or wrong.

Based on the absolutely thunderous applause after Paige's ballet dance routine came to an end it seemed as though she was right. Her anxiety from stage fright was tough, but the applause and the whistling made it impossible to do anything but frown as she left the stage. Some of the audience even chanted her name.

"They loved me," Paige whispered in wonder once Stringer left the stage from his interview of casually shading the Capitol.

"That they did," Stringer agreed. "But... now comes the hard part. Are you ready?"

Paige gulped, knowing she was nowhere close to being ready. It was impossible for any Outlier to feel ready for the Hunger Games, no matter how cocky they may have been or the skills that they possessed. Even in years won by careers at least three of them were not ready due to their typical horrid deaths.

But how she felt did not matter for it would start regardless. So, Paige gave Stringer a small nod.

"I'm as ready as I could be after the past few days I have had," she told him.

Stringer nodded, aware she had not really answered the question but not being willing to push it.

* * *

When the tributes were launched into the arena that year they heard buzzing before anything came into sight. So much buzzing that seemed more or less endless. That and a particularly sweet scene overwhelmed their senses until everything came into focus.

After the initial reeling in pure confusion it all became obvious what was going on here and where they had ended up at. It was a terrain literally nobody had seen coming, not even those who bet upon what the arena would be year by year.

They were inside a massive beehive. Bees flew lazily overheard, rivers of sticky honey flowed along in that slow way only honey could and the terrain was made up from crunchy honeycombs and other such substances all around. Even the metal exterior of the Cornucopia was dripping with a thick splattering of honey.

Paige had been positioned directly in front of the golden horn of plenty and thus was in a perfect position to see that something was off right away about the contents of the Cornucopia this year.

There was almost no food at all and very few packs scattered around. Most of the supplies on offer were weapons; knives, swords, spears, axes and so forth. There was even a kusarigama that laid at the heart of the Cornucopia, set there specifically for Bolton from Two.

"I knew it," Paige whispered to herself, realising that the surplus of survival stations had been there for a reason. "They're... they're putting the hunger in Hunger Games..."

One look down at her frail body, hardly any bigger after all the Capitol food she had forced herself to at least try and eat, and Paige is weeping. So what if she is used to being hungry? She'll die by a sword or an axe or maybe a mutt... and even if she doesn't the rest have more body mass to burn off and she'll starve.

She doesn't stay to grab anything as the gong rings. She flees for her life across the golden honeycomb landscape with tears in her eyes and her sleeve already a mess from wiping her nose on it three times before she's gone a hundred meters.

Despite the lack of food and water quite a few Outliers run into the fray anyway, desperate to claim a weapon before it's too late and the careers keep a tight hold of all the best supplies. It's the only way they'll ever stand a chance.

Several manage to make off with some knives, an axe or two and even a shiny sword in the case of the boy from Five.

Others lay dead in bloody, vile heaps across the sweet scented clearing of the Cornucopia. Some died trying to keep their guts in, some died with an axe or a knife lodged into their backs.

Stringer died with a spear smashed into his ribcage, but not before tackling and slitting the throat of the girl from Two. She'd been ready to try and shoot at Paige with the only bow and arrow in the arena, a thing he wasn't about to let happen.

The massacre ends with twelve dead tributes, the last one to die being the freckle covered girl from Seven when her savage District partner takes off both her legs with a nasty, sharp axe.

"That's brutal, even by _my_ standards," Peppermint remarked, standing by the torn corpse of the little boy from Six.

"No backsies on the alliance," the boy from Seven replied, shrugging.

The pack may have had a stable alliance of five going on, but nobody else could claim to hold any kind of an alliance or even a brief pact of protection. Least of all Paige, her alliance ending the moment Stringer died.

The pack left to hunt fairly quickly due to the lack of many supplies aside from weapons, leaving Wealth from One as a guard. The boy didn't mind this, content to juggle knives to score a few extra points with sponsors.

With the scattered Outliers having a much shorter head start than usual it made it easy for the careers to hunt down Zagnette from Three, Fume from Six and Tomato from Eleven. Little was left of the three aside a splatter of gore by the time the extra fierce pack was done with them.

It was fortunate that hunger and thirst sent the pack backwards towards the Cornucopia for a supply restock as Paige had been hiding amongst several honeycombs a mere half-mile ahead of where they had been heading. Unseen as the hive began to get darker and night arrived, she slipped away into the shadows without anybody catching a glimpse of her.

But Paige caught a glimpse of something alright; the bees began to fly lower to the ground after the anthem played.

Teary eyed over the death of her ally and friend, Paige kept on moving throughout the dull golden night in search of shelter.

"I am what I am, and what I am is beautiful."

* * *

After Bolton died from drowning in honey – quite the sticky situation, one could say – the Career pack decided to ditch the idea of having a guard altogether. There was such a lack of supplies that they could simply lug it all around with them and even if an Outlier or two did grab hold of a weapon while they were gone... well, they had a number advantage and were stronger. A guard was unneeded.

But as a consequence of their fast hunting and lack of notably breaks they began to burn off their energy quickly and were running through their supplies at a dangerously fast pace. Even with the knowledge they had more than any of the Outliers did, the pack felt a little nervous.

Food was not on the sponsor gift list this year. No supply replenishments were coming.

Why would there be when, unknown to basically all of the tributes, the arena itself was fully edible? The honey rivers, the golden ground, the honeycombs that towered in high mountains and blocks, every bit of it was perfectly safe to consume.

None of the tributes knew this, or simply did not trust it and assumed it was poisonous. With the mentors barred from outright telling their tributes this via a message within a sponsor gift the hunger only kept on going and made the tributes weaker as time passed by.

It made the emaciated girl from Twelve so weak, in fact, that she was entirely unresponsive by the time that pack managed to find her.

Paige carefully made her way over a crunchy honeycomb bridge above one of the honey rivers. She was stumbling along, weak from the soul choking hunger that practically strangled her like a clamp draining her of all that she was.

Finally reaching a tall cliff of honeycombs she began to approach a few solidified honey boulders to sit down, not caring in the slightest about getting sticky. She tripped over a small honey pebble, landing face first upon the ground. Standing herself up and swallowing some of the flakes from the ground out of reflex had her softly gasp.

"It's edible," Paige whispered, gazing at the landscape around her. "Every bit of it, edible. Ick, some sweet..."

Even with her powerful hunger it took quite a lot of encouragement both from herself, her memories of Stringer and sponsor notes sent in by Woof for her to take the first bite out of the honeycomb cliff.

Eventually she took a second bite and even a third. While kneeling over, almost hyperventilating, another cannon boomed throughout the arena. The thoughts of how the poor tribute must have died and how there were seven tributes still alive, several of which were part of the powerful career pack, turned her focus back to the ground. Paige clenched her eyes shut, breathing deeply in and out. A single long tear trickled down her face.

"It's better than dying, it's better than dying," Paige chanted, moving her face closer to the edible terrain.

As the hours went by Paige continued to chomp and chew away at the base of the honeycomb cliff, gradually satisfying her hunger and starting to bite a notably hole into the cliff. Eventually, amidst her sobs and shakes, Paige simply bit out chunks of the honeycomb and spat them away.

Hours passed, the anthem with it, and a hole had started to appear that was not there before.

* * *

Four days dragged by, no cannons firing but many moans and groans of hunger pains filling the air almost as loudly. The careers had run out of food and the remaining Outliers had nothing at all. It all added to a very literal example of the Hunger Games, a game nobody was having fun playing.

Paige alone was able to keep herself sustained, shaking, sobbing and rocking back and forth as she did so. She had to repeat her mantra hundreds of times an hour, trying not to crack from the pressure.

By now she had eaten a tunnel down into the base of the cliff and several meters underground. By using the circular piece of metal that had been sponsored to her, one painted to resemble honeycombs, it was enough to completely conceal her from sight. The starving tributes wouldn't question it, too hungry to even think of looking closer.

Twice the boy from Eleven had passed by Paige's hiding place and twice he'd been totally unaware of her presence.

Paige didn't care too much about her safety. She was in a state of constant panic from the combination of the bees flying ever lower towards the arena's floor and terror of how she looked after eating so much of the honeycomb floor.

She felt like throwing up out of sheer stress, only the terror of starving to death keeping her from doing so. So, Paige settled for constant hyperventilation as time passed at a snail's pace.

By the time starvation claimed a victim the career pack made up four of the remaining six tributes. The brawl driven by hunger induced madness knocked this down to three out of five with Peppermint, Raymond from Four and Wrenard from Seven splitting off into separate directions with the corpse of Wealth left gutted and staining the honeycombs red.

As the anthem played, the bees flew even lower. They sounded _angry_.

* * *

By day ten Paige was unable to sit still. It was physically impossible for her to stop herself from shaking. This and the feelings of thirst gave her a serious test of her resolve.

Of course, that was almost nothing to how the others were losing their minds from starvation. Desperate for food and terrified of everything around them, not even highly trained Peppermint knew that food was all around them with literally every single step they took leaving a footprint upon a tasty dessert.

In his commentary Caesar gravely called it almost like being locked in a supermarket over the weekend and starving to death.

While Raymond and Trowel from Eleven fought hand to hand in an intense, wild, crazy duel and Peppermint aimlessly wandered in circles miles from everybody else Paige faced another challenge.

Getting water.

A parachute fell containing a single bottle of water, landing on the sloped ground near her hiding spot and gently rolling away to the banks by the honey river. Paige nervously left her hiding spot and scampered over to grab the water. She downed the bottle in a few rapid gulps before she could think of conserving it.

Wrenard tackled her before she could toss the empty bottle away. The boy was screaming nonsensically, all systems of logic, reason and anything more than instinct were long since shut down and overridden by a desire for food of any sort.

Of course, this also meant his technique with his axe was nothing like it had been at the bloodbath and Paige was able to dodge his poor strikes. She ran away and he ran after her.

"I'll do to her what I did to all those animals back home!" Wrenard yelled, his eyes bloodshot and his face sallow. "Just send me something to eat! I don't care what, I'd even settle for anchovies!"

Paige was by no means a fast runner nor athletic for anything aside dancing, but the fact she had eaten recently and Wrenard had not made it easy to keep herself ahead from him. Breathing in deep, weezy gasps she ran on and on until she was cornered at the top of a tall honey cliff.

Wrenard charged at Paige, more animal than man. Only a graceful leap to the side saved Paige from being struck by the axe or from falling over the side like the boy from Seven did. He landed hard, breaking a leg.

The fall didn't kill him, but the honey rock that Paige pushed over the edge of the cliff in a terror driven surge of adrenaline did the job just fine. Paige sobbed and shook as she fled back to her tunnel sanctuary and curled up at the base of it, her tears soon mixing in with the sugar and sticky honey.

* * *

Paige stayed in that hole for two days while Raymond, after killing Trowel in a massively drawn out battle he'd barely won, went off in search of the two remaining girls. He never came close to finding Paige.

He never found Peppermint either, wandering in a slow and starving shuffle to the north while Paige cowered in the south and Peppermint crawled along, moaning in pain towards the east.

It didn't matter by the time the twelfth anthem came to an end. The bee mutts finally flew low enough to start causing damage and that's exactly what they did. Blocked out of Paige's tunnel by the cover, they settled for literally stinging the life out of Peppermint and Raymond.

The careers were so hungry that they hardly felt the stings before they faded away. Paige, meanwhile, heard all the non-stop buzzing for quite a long time before the last cannon echoed across the hive and the trumpets rang out.

She crawled out from her tunnel, shaking and ever so frail. So overcome with sickly feelings, anxiety and fear as she was, it was a wonder that she had it in her to do a small victory dance.

The dance consisted of a single spin before falling over in an unconscious slump.

* * *

Winning the Hunger Games did not cure Paige of her anorexia by any means, even after eating so much honeycomb that the tunnel which saved her life ended up existing at all. It certainly did nothing to better her anxiety even slightly. Memories were made that would never leave her.

But she was alive. That meant Paige could at least be treated in the first place, a process that began as soon as she went home to District Eight. Naturally, her District was absolutely delighted to have their second ever victor, especially one who was known for something other than rape like their first. Even Woof was glad, simply happy people would pay less attention to him next time Games season arrived.

Two months after the Games came to an end Paige left her second bi-weekly appointment with her doctor and made a beeline towards the destination she always visited every Sunday. The skies of Eight were always cloudy and full of smog, but around the tribute graveyard things tended to clear up. On this day, as Paige laid flowers down upon Stringer's grave and carefully knelt down, sitting herself in front of the tombstone.

"Hi Stringer," Paige said, her voice as soft as it always was. "Nice day today, relatively speaking. I mean, not that you're here to see it. Uh... the doctor said I'm making some progress, so that's nice. Still underweight and still not really 'cured' or anything like that but, well, I'm slowly starting to get there."

Paige sighed, mumbling inaudible as a cool breeze filled the afternoon.

"Thanks for being my friend and helping me. Maybe I could have done it alone, maybe I couldn't have... we'll never know. What I do know is that you made me feel like I mattered, y'know? Like me being here really means something. It hurt so badly and all that buzzing was mortifying, not to mention how awful it felt to eat that tunnel of honeycombs, but... I'm alive. You've made me feel glad for that," Paige softly smiled, resting a hand against the smooth gravestone. "I am what I am, and what I am is beautiful. Just like you said."

Paige soon lay down beside the grave, gazing up at the clouds. For a time, all was silent.

"It's not easy. Probably never will be. But I intend to try for as long as it takes to feel better and like all is well. I owe that to you Stringer," Paige said eventually. "...You are what you are, and what you are is a noble friend."

Paige continued to lay beside her friend's grave until the sun went down and she had to turn in for the night. As she walked away to her grand house she looked back at the grave.

"Same time next week then?" Paige asked.

She took the silence as a yes. For the rest of her life, this weekly tradition would always remain. Laying down flowers and talking to Stringer about how her life was progressing and how she was feeling about various things. When Paige one day told Stringer she was deemed to be cured of her eating disorder she, for the briefest of moments, though she heard a whisper on the wind cheering for her.

But, that had to have just been her imagination... right?

* * *

"Nice that Eight had another Victor and all, but... thirty years. Not even halfway through this sick game," Katniss shook her head, disgusted. "How many dead children was it by then?"

Peeta paused for a few moments, trying to quickly add up the numbers in his head.

"Six hundred and ninety," Peeta said, his voice very blank all of a sudden.

"...Fuck the Capitol," Katniss said, matter-of-factly.

The couple silently walked onwards for a few steps until they came to the thirty first face imprinted upon the sidewalk. Both couldn't help lightly smirking as they observed the face of a boy with long and wild hair, a few piercings, some scars and an expression of pure mischief and adventurous intent.

"Chassis Macalister," Katniss said, chuckling. "The first Victor of District Six."

"Feels fitting he came from Six," Peeta added. "After all... he won in only six hours."

* * *

And that was Paige! I found her to be a decently likeable and interesting kind of character, but what about you guys? How about the edible arena, perhaps one of the better arenas thus far in this tale? Personally speaking I feel satisfied with how this one turned out and how it has concluded the third decade of the Hunger Games. Next up, a very long awaited chapter where we'll meet the first Victor from Six. Oh, I have many plans for this one... see you guys real soon for it... O_O

* * *

 **Stats**

 **District 1:** Peridot Gaudy (8th Games), Crystal McCree (14th Games), Bronze Marley (19th Games), Crown Martins (24th Games)

 **District 2:** Baron Overwhill (4th Games), Runa Peace (7th Games), Olga Machete (10th Games), Rook Valiant (17th Games), Boulder Atherston (20th Games), Vercingetorix Carnby (25th Games), Dragon Batofel (27th Games)

 **District 3:** Honorius Perthshire (5th Games), Pi Orbit (22nd Games)

 **District 4:** Museida Selkirk (3rd Games), Mags Flanagan (11th Games), Tide Luther (23rd Games)

 **District 5:** Shunt Gaspar (12th Games), Isobel Sparks (18th Games), Crimson Flanders (29th Games)

 **District 6:** N/A

 **District 7:** Pliny Aransio (2nd Games), Fir Buzz (9th Games), Jack Tylos (21st Games)

 **District 8:** Woof Casino (16th Games), Paige Murphy (30th Games)

 **District 9:** Mizar Aldjoy (1st Games), Gwenith Rosebud (13th Games), Teff Withers (28th Games)

 **District 10:** Stallion March (26th Games)

 **District 11:** Bear Redfoot (15th Games)

 **District 12:** Duke Saint-Rose (6th Games)


	32. Chassis Macalister

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Hunger Games. They belong to Suzanne Collins.

 **Note:** The fourth decade of the Hunger Games begins! And to kick it off, the long awaited first ever Victor of District Six. This guy has been alluded to on sparse occasions in The Nameless Chronicles and now we're going to get the full story on this boy who won in record time. Because, you see, the thing with Victors from District Six is that they are rare, but when they win... they win _**BIG**_. Read on and enjoy the mayhem!

* * *

Katniss and Peeta stood silently in respect for the boy who, for all intents and purposes, accidentality committed the ultimate speedrun of the Hunger Games. Both cracked identical smiles, as if they were standing beside a legend. In a way, they literally were.

"They say a lot of heroes come from humble origins," Katniss said, chuckling softly. "To think he went from a construction worker to... well, himself."

"We came from humble origins too. Seems like it's a bit of a trend," Peeta added as he smiled down at Chassis' imprinted face. "Think it was really just an accident or do you think in some way he knew what he was doing?"

"I don't think we'll ever know for sure," Katniss replied. "I just know that 'the kick' is going to be a legend to last for all of time."

* * *

 **31st Annual Hunger Games**

 **Name:** Chassis Macalister

 **Gender:** Male

 **District:** 6

 **Age:** 16

 **Kills:** 10

* * *

Captain Abe watched from his seat on the stage as the youths of District Six trudged into the square with all of the life and energy of a criminal about to be executed. All were gloomy, grey faced and practically devoid of any sort of emotion other than pain.

It was to be expected after thirty years of loss in the Hunger Games and a grand total of sixty dead children. From Mazda and Nissan in the First Games all the way to Fume and Zhonda in the Thirtieth Games.

Abe shook his head, sympathetic. When he had been assigned the role of District Six's official mentor thirty years ago he had been as pro-Capitol and anti-District as all of his fellow Peacekeepers. He didn't expected to stick around for long on this job, five years at the very most.

He didn't expect to become so attached either and certainly did not ever imagine that he'd come to see the District as more of a home from the Capitol ever was. But after being in the job for so long, how couldn't he come to like the place?

Well... maybe not. He didn't like the gangs, the drugs and all the suffering. But he did, for the most part, like the people of the transportation District.

Being old now and a far cry from who he used to be, the mostly retired Peacekeeper wanted nothing more than to be able to bring one tribute home safe and sound. Just one. If he could do that then he could retire and pass away without regret.

One less regret at least. But with Olga making it a yearly mission to exterminate the tributes from her most hated District in the opening minutes it was rare for any of his tributes to make it past the opening hour. It was rarer still for them to survive past the first day and basically unheard of for them to reach the finale. Only a single tribute made it that far.

"This isn't right," Abe muttered as he watched the crowd of children take their places, many already weeping or looking like they were dead already.

Abe flinched. Had they always looked so innocent, helpless and afraid? How had he been so blind and not seen that all those years ago when he had to mentor the young, engaged couple?

All Abe could do was hope he ended up with a strong pair of tributes and that they were fast enough to escape the bloodbath. From there... well, he'd deal with that once the time arrived. _If_ it arrived.

This year the escort assigned to District Six was dressed as a jackhammer – it was the latest fashion craze in the Capitol – and jumped around much like the item she was dressed as, reaping a boy and a girl without delay.

The girl was a pitiful looking fourteen year old, clearly half starving and showing all the signs of being a druggie at such a tender age. The Hunger Games had already ended up with a few surprise victors, but Piston Jesters clearly had no chance at all.

The boy who mounted the stage made Abe pause and think.

Chassis Macalister was decently tall at five foot and nine inches, had a decently muscular build and he didn't appear bad to look at either. The scars he had weren't grotesque, but would perhaps interest sponsors who favoured tributes with a unique look. He didn't appear scared either.

"So, tell us a bit about yourself Chassis," the escort said.

"Well, I build stuff and I drive a car in the demolition derby. Creating and destroying, that's me," Chassis said with a chuckle. "Oh, and I had a relative in the arena once. He didn't make it home."

"What was his name?" the escort asked, eager.

"Chev. Second place in the Tenth Hunger Games," Chassis said, giving a casual sort of shrug. "I'll do one better in his memory and win this thing. Let's go!"

Abe could only flinch as Chassis and Piston were herded into the judgement building. On the one hand Chassis was physically an adept boy and seemed like the kind who could fight and take a beating. He took part in demolition derbies where injuries were so very common!

On the other hand he was related to the same tribute who had denied Olga her final battle and completed kill list all those years ago. There was no way that the patriot was going to allow Chassis the chance to be anything besides twenty fourth place in under ten seconds in.

But that did not mean Abe was ready to give up. The Games just had to be played very, very carefully.

* * *

Careful was clearly not going to be possible.

Not even an hour into the train ride Chassis had accidentally broke five plates, three forks and puzzlingly he even broke the table. The boy seemed to have a knack for accidentally wrecking things. He claimed it was just part of being a demolition derby driver.

The escort claimed he was a clumsy hooligan and should be as careful as he was on his building job.

"Thanks," Chassis remarked, digging into the roast gammon on his plate.

"What for?" the escort replied, confused.

"For calling me a hooligan. That's what my demolition derby team are called," Chassis laughed, taking another bite of his steak. "The Hazardous Hooligans!"

The escort groaned, muttering about it being one of 'those years'. Abe, meanwhile, was running through ideas of how to use this to potentially get Chassis a sponsor or two. Perhaps if the boy agreed to have logos of various Capitol companies put onto his car post-Games there might be potential for enough sponsor pledges to send him food, water and a knife. The basics, but at least enough to prevent him having to run into the opening melee.

The reaping recap changed everything.

Both of the tributes from one were beautiful killers like they always were and the pair from two looked absolutely savage, like they were already thirsting for the blood of their foes. It was the name of the male tribute that had everybody's attention, both in the District Six train carriage and across the nation.

Boris Machete.

The presenters on TV wasted no time in explaining that Boris was Olga's nephew and was more than ready to bring home a second victory for the extremely Capitol loyal Machete family. Just the mere sight of the vicious boy and his vast muscles had many people, tribute and audience member alike feeling intimidated. Even the presenters had to pause for a moment, as if worried.

Naturally it was only inevitable that the presenter went crazy with glee when Chassis revealed his relation to Chev. A rematch between the Machete family and the Macalister family was seemingly all they could talk about for several minutes as the tributes from seven through to nine passed without any commentary at all.

"He seems tough," Chassis noted, letting out a breath. "Very tough."

"Do you think you have any chance at all of besting him in a fight?" Abe asked, hesitant.

Chassis merely gave Abe a toothy grin.

"I've beaten the Wreckage Rompers in the derbies like ten times. If I can do that, I think I have a chance of beating this guy as well," Chassis said, balling his fist. "Besides, a rematch like this... that'd attract sponsors right?"

"That's correct," Abe said, nodding. "Though a lot of them will probably go towards Boris. He's the one to beat this year."

"Think he has any weaknesses?" Chassis asked, laying his hands on his knees and leaning towards Abe. "Like, any life threatening allergies?"

"Impossible to know about that. But he's likely as arrogant and ill tempered as his aunt always has been. You might be able to make him lose focus if you mock him... but I'd not advise provoking him, unless you truly had no other options left and it seemed like the only way to stand a chance," Abe let out a deep breath. "This is going to be a really hard year."

"Yeah, hard for the other districts," Chassis said, standing up and pumping his fists. "They're gonna get a crushing defeat! Who's with me?"

Abe would be with his tributes until the very end, even if the odds were awful. The escort agreed only due to her contract, nothing more, and even Piston offered a mumble of commitment. It seemed, though, that even she knew she was completely and utterly doomed at this point.

Chassis didn't show fear. He claimed he knew what he was doing and would play this the same way that he did everything else in his life up to this point. When pressed on this, his answer really did not inspire any hope in Abe.

"I'll just make it up as I go along and see what happens."

* * *

The Gamemakers always loved a good rivalry in the training centre and typically allowed arguments to play out so long as they did not turn into forbidden physical altercations. Those were the rules after all.

Abe wasn't allowed to go down to the training centre, but he certainly heard about what was going on. One of his old friends on the force who worked as a guard down there was fine to give him the full story of the daily events for his tributes.

Not that he really needed it due to the sheer volume that Boris had been screaming at.

"Your boy really made him see red and go into a frenzy. Seems like Chassis managed to work out one little weakness in that brute's armoured outer shell," Corporal Crux had said that night as the two older men sat at a cafe nearby the tribute building.

"What was it?" Abe replied, genuinely curious. "I heard all of the screaming, but I couldn't hear what Chassis said."

"Well, your boy must be either very brave or very, very reckless. Maybe both," Crux took a sip of his drink. "He made 'yo mama jokes'. It set Boris off and for a moment I thought that we were going to be dealing with a Games lacking a twenty fourth tribute."

"Like the fifth?" Abe said, soon sighing. "Nice to know Boris can be made to lose his focus, but dammit... this boy will be the death of me."

"And himself," Crux added. "He's really getting invested in this rivalry. He's making Boris mad, _really_ mad. It's like when that loudmouthed relative of his pissed off Olga years ago and she got in trouble for attacking him."

"History is repeating," Abe muttered, hoping so dearly that it would not end with another dead boy from Six. "At least Chassis has a good place in the narrative going in."

"True, and Boris might let it play out. He benefits from it as well; Chassis may be able to slip away from him at the start, but that doesn't help at all against the other three Careers," Crux poured himself another drink after finishing his first. "Basically, the Ones are vicious and will kill anybody not on their side in an instant while the girl from Two is an Outlier racist."

"So, any of the lower Districts are vermin in her eyes? Dammit, that makes things harder," Abe took a gulp of his own drink. "Well, thanks for filling me in on this. At least I have something to tell the sponsors. Maybe enough for just one to support Chassis."

"How about the girl?" Crux asked.

"She's given up already," Abe replied, sadly shrugging. "It's Chassis or certain defeat. That's it."

"Well, good luck," Crux patted Abe on the shoulder. "Why keep trying after all of these years? You could easily retire with a great pension. You don't stand to really gain anything if one does come home."

Abe finished his drink, getting his coat back on.

"Well, somebody has got to do this job and I have proven that I am fully capable of doing so for thirty years. I think it's only right, really, that I see it through to the very end," Abe replied as he rose up. "And I do gain something, Crux. I gain a Victor and a saved life. Anyway, must be going, still have a few sponsors to speak to. Thanks for the drinks."

With that being said Abe headed off down the street basked in the fine sunset while running through pitch lines in his head. Crux watched him go, unable to keep a very faint smile off of his face.

"Now there goes a man dedicated to his job," he remarked. "I wonder if I would have been the same if Nine hadn't won in the very first year of the Games."

* * *

The interviews were a spectacle as always, for better or for worse. While by this point every tribute generally had at least two or three people who would listen to what they were saying the fact was that not all tributes ever got equal attention. The tiny girl from Eleven was never going to get much focus while the boy from Seven who volunteered to spare his learning impaired older brother would naturally get a good bit of coverage.

But tonight, it was all about Two VS Six all the way.

It was about Boris VS Chassis, the rematch of the century.

While Boudicca from Two was vicious and very open about her hatred for Six and Piston, half drugged, later on admitted that people from two 'smelled funny' the real heat of the rivalry came from the interviews of the boys. Neither showed fear and neither was ready to let their rival take the upper hand in their ongoing feud even for a second.

"Chassis thinks that he will not end up like that relative of his," Boris said with a snort. "...He's right. Chev died by poison in second place. I'll leave Chassis with his guts torn out and his chest cut wide open before we reach the final five. I give him around three days tops before his cannon fires."

He gave the camera a cold, hard stare. From his seat in the audience between Tide and Stallion it was impossible Abe to not feel worried.

"Six will never have a Victor," Boris said, cold as ice.

Abe prayed so hard that Boris was wrong about this.

"I'll take him up on that bet," Tide remarked, fishing out a few coins from her pockets. "Ten caps says that Six has a victory by the seventh Quell."

Stallion, meanwhile, just patted Abe on the back.

"If neither of mine can win then I hope one of yours does," he said with full sincerity.

Abe smiled after hearing this, though his smile was very unsteady after Chassis' interview came to an end at the halfway point of the show.

"Short and sweet, everything Boris said was bullshit," Chassis said, relaxing. "Tougher people than him have tried to hurt me and they were all driving armoured cars. Let him try, I'm ready for him. But I can't blame him for being wrong. Being an idiot runs in his family. All in the DNA on his mother's side."

"What do you mean by that, Chassis?" Caesar asked, both eager for more banter and genuinely curious.

Chassis simply smirked.

"Because Boris' mama is so dumb that she studied for a drug test by taking all of the drugs. All of them," Chassis said, giving the nearest camera a sly wink.

Boris' roar of anger could be heard from backstage and Chassis soon left to stage to plenty of applause. He'd shown no fear and certainly had a good portion of the audience on his side for the Games that loomed less than a full day away.

However, one quick glance at the seat five spots to his left told him that he certainly did not have Olga on his side. Indeed, she looked like she wanted to painfully murder Chassis herself.

Abe left the audience with the rest of the crowd after the boy from Twelve wowed everybody with his card tricks, praying that Chassis would end up better than the previous sixty children of District Six had. He even hoped that, by some fluke, Piston may have a chance as well.

* * *

Abe sat down in the mentoring room for the thirty first year in a row, bracing himself for the bloodshed that was mere minutes away. Not even ten minutes and more children would die. It was all he could do to try and hope that it would not be either of those in his care.

"Feeling ok?" Mizar asked Abe as he and Teff made their past past him to the District Nine mentoring station.

"Not even slightly," Abe replied, pouring out a cool glass of water for himself.

"That's ok. I'm not either, not even after all these years," Mizar said, sighing as he took his yearly seat. "Let's get it over with."

As the Nines began to talk via sign language to each other Abe glanced at the District Three mentoring station. Honorius sat alone, haunted to this day by Pi's suicide years ago. As always, a black sheet had been laid over the chair that she would have sat in. It was clear Honorius wasn't going to be over Pi's death for a long time.

It reminded Abe that he wasn't over the deaths of his tributes of years gone by and likely never would be.

One look at the Twos, both the way Dragon chuckled to himself and smirked at all who looked his way and how Olga sat with chilling professionalism had him looking away fast. He couldn't afford to get distracted when the tributes were seconds away from rising into the arena.

As the screens turned on as one the mentors got a perfect look at the arena... except not really. It was incredibly dark and hard to see anything for several long moments. Only after half a minute did things come into focus, the screens showing the tributes around the Cornucopia.

It was a dark coal mine.

The cameras showed plenty of shots of the mostly terrified tributes and the dark, twisty caverns of the arena. The only light was around the Cornucopia, everything else visible to the audience only by the night vision settings of the cameras. It was dark labyrinth like no other before it. The mine carts were badly rusted, the support beams at the sides of major tunnels seemed like they had a crack or two – one looked notably strained – and coal was scattered around, the scent of coal dust impossible to escape.

Abe looked at his own tributes on their pedestals. Piston shuddered and moaned from the combination of fear and withdrawal while Chassis had his fists balled and a look of steely resolve in his eyes. He glanced towards a camera in the ground close by his pedestal.

Looking Abe right in the eye, he winked.

The gong rang and Abe braced himself for the worst, desperately hoping that Chassis and Piston would survive the opening minutes unlike the vast majority of District Six tributes in history.

Despite the darkness of the mineshaft arena the area around the Cornucopia itself was basked in a gloomy sort of light, both from a few lamps build into the walls and the Cornucopia glowing a sickly sort of gold. It made it impossible to miss any of the blood, fluids and entrails of those who died in the desperate battle for supplies.

Due to how it would be impossible to see anything in the darkness without aid and how there was likely scarce vegetation and water this was one of the years where every single tribute charged into the fray. Naturally, this meant a massive bloodbath ensued with many tributes slaughtered in the opening seconds.

Around Abe several of the mentors sobbed, yelled, mumbled in horror or recoiled from what they were seeing as youths were struck down and murdered. In forty seconds six tributes were already dead and Abe was left frantically trying to locate his pair amongst the madness of the tributes who were still alive and the splatters left by the corpses of the fallen.

His heart sank and his fist tightened when he spotted Piston. The poor girl lay half dead, cowering in a pool of blood with a knife in her gut. Her suffering was ended as Boudicca bought a spear downwards into her spine.

Half of Six's chances of winning were gone, but Chassis had to be alive. He had to be! It was several terror filled moments of searching before Abe located where he was. It was a relief that he was nowhere near Boris, the powerful brute finishing off three weaker outliers beside the horn of plenty with calm, emotionless eyes.

It was considerably less of a relief to see that Chassis was struggling underneath the girl from One. From his left Abe heard Crystal saying something about her tribute, Queenie, having no sense of humour and only caring about fighting. Crystal was clearly not wrong based on the way Queenie was trying her best to scare Chassis and make him panic before death.

"Come on boy, fight her!" Abe yelled, standing up from his seat.

"Sit down Grandpa!" Dragon yelled from his own seat.

"Go take it up the ass, boy!" Abe yelled.

Dragon went quiet after that, stunned. Abe paid him no mind, staring intently at the screen and pleading for something, anything to happen to help Chassis escape. Alas, nothing happened.

Chassis didn't _need_ help to escape. He spat a thick wad of phlegm into Queenie's eye and headbutted her a moment later, hard enough to break her nose. Despite how he looked wounded and tired Chassis wasted no time in grabbing Queenie's fallen knife and jamming it right into her heart.

Chassis ran for his life after that, limping along after the beating he had taken. With Boris closing in he'd not had any time to grab any equipment aside from a half-empty bottle of water, a pair of night vision goggles working at half-capacity and a metal bucket. He'd not even been able to grab the knife out from Queenie's corpse.

Abe could only sigh as Chassis' ran through the darkness, hissing and groaning in pain. He was alive, but it seemed like the odds were vastly out of his favour. Boris hadn't taken a scratch and remained the favourite of the audience. Ogla made a remark about the hundreds of thousands of caps she had to spend on Boris.

Abe glanced at the mere ten thousand he had for Chassis and began to brace himself for the inevitable. Chassis may have made the top ten already, fourteen innocent children laying crumpled and broken around the Cornucopia, but now the hardest part of the Games was set to begin. The other six outliers scattered off into the darkness – all of them in better condition than Chassis – while the trio of careers began to sort their supplies and gear up, tending to whatever minor wounds they had received.

Abe grimaced. Win or lose, he was Chassis' mentor and that meant he was with him until the end.

* * *

It was just over five hours since the gong had rung and the Games had started. By now the Outliers had gotten a decent distance away from the Cornucopia and the career pack were ready to start hunting them down in a demented, grisly game of hide and seek.

"This arena is pretty lame like seriously it's got to be the second ugliest arena of all because what could be worse then the quell's arena right?" Crown sighed, shaking his head. "Paige? You got so lucky with having such a delicious arena like honestly you really did."

"Oh, um... thank you Crown," Paige replied, shyly picking up a magazine of sponsor supplies to hide her face behind.

Paige soon looked back to the screen to keep track of her own tribute, a thirteen year old from one of the richer families within Eight. One of the few survivors of the carnage. Aside from her and the career pack it was just the girl from five, both from Seven, the girl from Nine, the boy from Twelve and Chassis left.

Abe paid no mind to any tributes beside his own. He watched attentively as Chassis finally stopped for a rest. After so much running and eventually slowing to power walking the youth was exhausted, slumping down to lay against the wall of the dark tunnel he was in. As he took heavy breathes he inspected his injuries, groaning when he saw the bleeding cuts across his thighs and upper left arm.

"Those are gonna scar," he said, trying to hide his pain and show off a grin for the cameras.

As Chassis got up and started to pace Olga tutted, shaking her head in dismay.

"What a poor display," Olga muttered, eyeing Chassis with contempt. "He's gonna die before Boris finds him. Just like the Macalister family to get themselves killed before a real fight begins. Cowards and traitors the lot of them."

Abe was about to tell Olga to shut up, but cut himself off as Chassis' began to speak. The cameras delighted in showing off his pain and misery for the nation to behold. He let out a yell, picking up a stone and tossing it away.

"This sucks!" Chassis yelled, finally losing his temper. "One day I'm in an awesome derby. Now I'm down a mine. This is a load of crap!"

At the word 'crap' Chassis gave a hard kick of frustration to the support beam at the edge of the mineshaft tunnel.

The support beam he kicked happened to be the one that had been under far more strain than the rest. The kick was all it took for the beam to break.

The entire mineshaft began to rumble.

"Oh crap!" Chassis yelled, scrambling to put the metal bucket on his head. "Helmet, helmet!"

As Chassis ran down the tunnel Olga let out a rare laugh, amused by the show that she was seeing play out.

"So much for that rivalry," she said, smirking. "Seems the Gamemakers have grown tired of him."

The rumbling continued, all ten of the tributes soon yelling in alarm from it. Rocks began to fall all over the place and sirens began to wail within and outside of the mentoring room. As tunnels collapsed in the arena one after another there was only one thing the mentors could say as one.

"What the fuck?!"

The cameras began to shut off one by one as the rockfall destroyed them one after another. On and on the madness continued, the deafening rumbles and roars of the broken arena presented for the entire nation to bare witness to.

Amongst the carnage everybody got a glimpse of Boris Machete being crushed like a bug under a large boulder. He died without even having the chance to leave the Cornucopia clearing. Olga screamed, a mixture of furious, heartbroken and absolutely bewildered by the freak accident she was seeing.

And then... everything was silent. The alarms kept on blaring and plenty of Capitol officials could be heard screaming and shouting in a mad panic, but the arena had gone incredibly silent.

One kick had destroyed the arena.

In the stunned, gobsmacked silence of the mentoring room Crystal groaned and slumped over as her heart began acting up again. Crown grabbed the defibrillators to help his fellow Victor, unable to tear his eyes away from the screens showing all the rubble.

Abe stared, torn between horror and absolute amazement. It seemed all but certain Chassis had died in the collapse of the mineshaft and thus bought about the thirty first loss for District Six.

But, it seemed just as certain that all of the tributes had been lost in the rubble.

It looked like there was no Victor at all.

* * *

Time ticked closer to the sixth hour of the Games, the ceilings of the mineshaft tunnels taken away as hovercrafts circled overheard, desperately trying to search for survivors. The entire staff of Gamemakers had already been sent through Orion's trusty wood chipper for this disaster, but restaffing them was the least of the Capitol's worries.

If there was no Victor then they were going to be in some serious shit.

The mentors stared at the screen, all mentors who had a tribute whose body had not been discovered yet – only Crown, Paige, Duke and Abe – hardly able to breathe. Olga, meanwhile, looked like her brain had broken. She seemed unable to comprehend the fact that the Capitol had allowed this to happen.

She seemed unable to believe her dear nephew was dead.

What remained of the broken arena was deathly silent, a far cry from the immense volume that had filled it not even a full hour ago. It was a sight that spooked even the spoiled Capitol citizens.

"So... what happens if nobody wins?" Crimson whispered to Isobel, her eyes filled with tears and her face ever so pale like always.

"...We fight," Isobel whispered back.

A few moments passed in silence, the hovercrafts unable to find any signs of a survivor. They recovered the broken body of the boy from Twelve, earning a sad sigh from Duke. Other than that, nothing. The trackers were all broken by the rockball, nobody having any idea where the tributes were, whether dead or alive.

Abe just wondered how long it might be until another tribute like Chassis came along. One who seemed to have any sort of a chance and actually escape the opening brawl.

"Look! Look, right there!" Fir yelled, rapidly pointing her arms to a certain spot on the screen to the point they blurred.

The hovercrafts noticed it as well, a searchlight quickly shining down on a pile of rubble down at what used to be the third of the forty five southern tunnels. The rocks were shifting around, as if something was trying to get out from underneath. All screen in the nations switched to a close up of the movement in the rubble.

"Please..." Abe whispered.

In an instant a figure burst out from the rubble and gasped for air. A bucket fell off their head as they wheezed, swaying around in a daze. Hurt as they were they were still very much alive.

As he stood amongst the wreckage, basked in a golden light of the hovercraft that descended to pick him up from his prison, Chassis Macalister appeared practically angelic. He may have been bruised and covered in nasty coal dust, but he stood triumphant as the sole survivor.

Abe could hardly believe his eyes at what he was seeing. The first ever Victor of District Six!

Chassis coughed out some coal dust and glanced around at the sight of complete and utter destruction that surrounded him for miles. That was when he noticed the hovercrafts and all of the cameras focused on him and him alone. Literally all of humanity awaited with baited breathes what his first words as a victor would be.

"...I didn't do it."

District Six broke out into deafening cheers of relief, sobs of joy and sweet, sweet shouts of victory. At long last, one of their children was coming home where he belonged.

The clock hit six hours exactly and the victory trumpets rang out, signalling the end of the Games. A complete and utter disaster as they were, it didn't take away the joy of the district of transportation nor of Abe himself.

If anything, it made it all the better.

Abe didn't even realise he was sobbing until Mizar pointed it out to him. He didn't care, too happy that he'd finally accomplished what he had tried to do for so long.

 _He had a Victor_.

* * *

The Thirty First Hunger Games went down as one of the biggest disasters and national embarrassments in the history of the Hunger Games. Nothing ever managed to top the level of sheer chaos and calamity of these particular Games, not even the Second, Thirty Fourth or Sixty Sixth Games. It was, for all intents and purposes, the most awful Hunger Games in history.

Abe didn't care and Chassis certainly didn't either. It was nothing short of a divine miracle that Chassis had survived at all; the bucket had protected his skull, but even then that only mattered because when the rocks fell they had simply trapped him in an air pocket where he fell unconscious from shock. Both he and the Capitol had dodged a major bullet.

Chassis went home as a hero and a figure of legend and myth to his District, a place he'd be forever known as the boy who won the Games in six measly hours and humiliated the vile Capitol for all of humanity to see.

But one person got an even bigger cheer... Abe. Chassis credited him as a wonderful, tireless mentor and the one who had told him that spitting in the eye of an opponent was a last ditch tactic worth trying if he was out of options. That and all his other advice and care was, to Chassis, the main reason he was still alive. Abe started as a brute of the Capitol, but age and experience turned him into a kinder man who felt very much at home within Six.

The tour was about as much of a clusterfuck as could be expected, but after that life went on. Not always great – far from it in fact – but never quite so hopeless and full of pain as it was before Chassis' victory.

One month after the tour Chassis and Abe sat together, both content with life and ready for whatever the next spot of adventure may have been.

"Did you really mean it?" Abe asked. "How I was the only reason you made it home? It was all you really, kicking that support beam like you did."

"Maybe, but your advice kept me calm enough to be in a fighting state of mind and know to spit in Queenie's eyes," Chassis replied. "All you, mate."

"...Thanks Chassis," Abe said, smiling serenely. "So... ready to fuck 'em up?"

"Always!" Chassis cackled.

Chassis put his heavily customised, illegally modified and insane looking car into gear and drove into the demolition derby arena alongside his co-driver. Both laughed and cheered as they tore around the arena, crashing into other cars and having a grand time.

Six may not have won the Games often, but The Hazardous Hooligans were never ever defeated in their chaotic sport. Especially not with Abe on the team!

* * *

Katniss and Peeta smiled, both practically beaming for the briefest of moments.

"I don't know about you, but the Capitol had it all wrong," Katniss said, chuckling. "This wasn't the worst Games ever, it was the best... I mean, not great but... you know what I mean."

"I do," Peeta said assuringly. "Heroes seem to come from Twelve, but legends come from Six."

"Here, here," Katniss agreed.

The couple walked ten more steps down the street together, hand in hand. They stopped as they arrived at the thirty second face imprinted upon the side walk. A pretty looking girl with a confident, cheeky smirk and a pixie cut looked back up at them, her eyes full of fire and her nose sharp and pointing looking.

"Dollar Dettwieller," Katniss read. "District One names, I swear..."

* * *

That was Chassis, the first Victor of District Six and the 'Hunger Games speedrunner' with a time nobody ever beat. I just love a good WTF disaster and I'd say that this chapter certainly had one! A bit of a punk and a reckless guy, Chassis stays alive and now all twelve Districts finally have their own Victor. So now the question is... how many Victors will each of the Districts end up having? Time will tell. Stay tuned for more!

* * *

 **Stats**

 **District 1:** Peridot Gaudy (8th Games), Crystal McCree (14th Games), Bronze Marley (19th Games), Crown Martins (24th Games)

 **District 2:** Baron Overwhill (4th Games), Runa Peace (7th Games), Olga Machete (10th Games), Rook Valiant (17th Games), Boulder Atherston (20th Games), Vercingetorix Carnby (25th Games), Dragon Batofel (27th Games)

 **District 3:** Honorius Perthshire (5th Games), Pi Orbit (22nd Games)

 **District 4:** Museida Selkirk (3rd Games), Mags Flanagan (11th Games), Tide Luther (23rd Games)

 **District 5:** Shunt Gaspar (12th Games), Isobel Sparks (18th Games), Crimson Flanders (29th Games)

 **District 6:** Chassis Macalister (31st Games)

 **District 7:** Pliny Aransio (2nd Games), Fir Buzz (9th Games), Jack Tylos (21st Games)

 **District 8:** Woof Casino (16th Games), Paige Murphy (30th Games)

 **District 9:** Mizar Aldjoy (1st Games), Gwenith Rosebud (13th Games), Teff Withers (28th Games)

 **District 10:** Stallion March (26th Games)

 **District 11:** Bear Redfoot (15th Games)

 **District 12:** Duke Saint-Rose (6th Games)


	33. Dollar Dettwieller

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Hunger Games. They belong to Suzanne Collins.

 **Note:** Another chapter, another load of carnage! Perhaps not as much as last time because, let's face it, what Chassis did is really hard to top in terms of 'WTF just happened?!' (though I will try to keep those kinds of shocks going, heheh!) but hopefully this will be an enjoyable chapter nonetheless. I certainly had no shortage of ideas given what this is based on... you'll see what I mean~.

* * *

Katniss and Peeta looked down at Dollar, both unsure what to say about the Victor they both knew not the barest of details about.

"Well, she's certainly a Career," Katniss noted. "I guess that's a start."

"She looks decently tough," Peeta said, crossing his arms. "I mean, it's to be expected but she just... I don't know, her imprinted face has a certain look to it, you know?"

"...That's a rare sentence," Katniss said with a small chuckle. "I think we both can agree we know nothing, so how about ten seconds of silence before we move on?"

"Works for me," Peeta agreed, nodding.

* * *

 **32nd Annual Hunger Games**

 **Name:** Dollar Dettwieller

 **Gender:** Female

 **District:** 1

 **Age:** 18

 **Kills:** 4

* * *

Dollar came from a rather unusual family.

As was the case decades ago and remains the case now, there are the wealthy elites of One and the working class families who, realistically speaking, are beyond the upper class of the most outlying of Districts. Of course, factions exist everywhere in human society and that extends to the working classes of One.

There are those who work in the ruby mines like the Statlers, Waldorfs and Hensens.

There are those who push around the carts in the garnet mines like the Mountains, the Fontaines and the Looms.

And then there are the Dettwiellers. The family that most citizens would deny knowing and especially deny living near. A family that survived the dark days fully intact and many would claim are a few beads short of a bracelet. On the surface they appear normal enough; happy parents and four excitable children, a common enough job as gem cutters in the main topaz mine and a house that isn't falling apart at the seams. Just from a glance it seems like there is no reason to avoid them.

But then one takes more than just a glance and sees that the Dettwiellers are a family of zombie survivalists.

Bizarre as it may seem to an outsider of Panem, few believe in zombies at all. Beyond movies they are just deemed as silly fantasy. Even with all kinds of horrible mutts in the arena year after year zombies remained as a particular piece of fiction viewed with contempt and a scoff of disdain.

But if you were to ask the Dettwiellers about zombies you'd be given plenty of assurance that they were real beings and that they would take over Panem one day, the only fail-safe against this being to train hard and learn the skills to fight them off.

Dollar was the eldest child of her family and the most competent zombie fighter that her clan had ever seen. Able to recite the facts at a moment's notice, competent with anything from a knife to a boomstick and beyond, in incredible shape physically and with all the signs of being a born leader... truly, she was her parents' pride and joy.

All she was really missing was even the slightest bit of social acceptance.

With her fairly scruffy look – shaggy shoulder length brunette hair, clothes often stained with mud or some remnants of trash, a fairly squashed looking nose – it was already hard for Dollar to fit in with her generally gorgeous and dirt abhorring peers, but when the zombie survival was added on it only became inevitable for Dollar to be an outcast.

She didn't give a shit, figuring it wasn't her problem if her foolish classmates wanted to become easy meat for the zombies. Less people in a group meant faster travelling and supplies lasting longer. Fewer mouths to feed and all that.

Despite her lack in popularity and, by Capitol and District One standards, physical beauty it was nonetheless a fact that Dollar was hands down the strongest female at the academy that year. It was only common sense to give the position of tribute to the most likely prospect to come home as more than a brutalised corpse.

On the night before the reaping Dollar and the Dettwieller family threw a farewell party the best way they knew how. Naturally, what better kind of party was there than a night in the zombie bunker? With emergency soup rations, the static of the battered radio and taking turns knifing the zombie dummy it was about the most grand of goodbyes Dollar could ask for.

But, party or not, that didn't mean Dollar wasn't going to be given one final rapid-fire test of her knowledge.

"Best way to kill a zombie?" Mr Dettwieller asked.

"Headshot with a shotgun a point blank. Failing that, burning them to ash," Dollar recited.

"The cure all for basic poisons?" Mrs Dettwieller prompted.

"Blue herbs, what else?" Dollar said, smirking.

"What to do if you're bitten?" Cent, Dollar's youngest sister, asked.

"Make peace with inevitable death unless the bite is on the end of a limb," Dollar said, calm and collected. "At that point amputation or an as-yet-unknown antidote is all that'll save you from turning into a monster."

Mr Dettwieller rested his hands upon Dollar's shoulders, looking his eldest daughter right in her hazel eyes.

"You're ready," he said, full serious in his tone.

To Dollar, being told she was ready was the highest honour and compliment that her father could have given her. It wasn't just a statement that she was ready for the arena. To her, it was confirmation that she was ready for the zombie apocalypse.

It was all she'd ever wanted.

* * *

Usually a career tribute, and many outliers for that matter, would spend their time on the tribute train doing such things as carefully watching the reaping recap and enjoying the luxurious foods on offer. But Dollar was not a typical tribute, least of all from One.

She didn't trust anybody but herself and thus she never left her room for the entire journey from One to the Capitol. She remained in hiding, traps rigged up all around the room and a knife in hand as she lightly slept under the bed. Even the quietest of mice would have failed to sneak up on her.

She arose in a nanosecond when, the next morning, the escort entered her room to demand she come out and have breakfast like a normal person.

The poor escort was left half traumatised after being suspended upside down in a rope snare and being aggressively inspected for any signs of a zombie bite. Being declared 'clean' was hardly any comfort.

"Don't cry, you're not gonna turn into a zombie," Dollar said, helping the escort get down. "I mean, you sort of live in such a zombie-like routine in the Capitol, but that's not the sort of zombie I've got my mind on."

The escort wailed and sobbed to Bronze, begging her favourite victor to please save her from Dollar. Bronze just shrugged, taking the chance for a bit of fun and agreed on the condition the escort keep his bed warm with him.

Dollar didn't pay any mind to Peridot scolding the lecherous nineteenth Victor nor the way the escort looked at her in sheer terror. No, she just powered through a full loaf of thick bread in hardly a minute.

"…We have all these amazing foods and you're choosing bread?" the male tribute, Radiant, had asked. "Try the honey glazed chicken, Dollar. It's good."

"What, and spoil myself? I should think not. When the shit hits the fan we're only going to suffer worse if we end up craving for luxury," she paused to take a big bite of a second loaf. "You can't miss what you never had."

"I guess that makes some sort of sense," Radiant admitted. "It'll make it easier to win the Hunger Games without distractions."

"Who cares about that? I've got bigger things in mind," Dollar stood up, cracking her knuckles. "I'm gonna go do pull ups. If you don't want to become one of the undead, you might want to do so as well."

Radiant just shook his head as Dollar walked away. He had no patience for the eldest child of the family that was seen to be the embarrassment of District One. He could only hope the rest of the pack would be tolerable.

Dollar, meanwhile, had already forgotten Radiant's name. Who cared about trivial details like names when there was zombie survival training to be done?

* * *

Dollar was already seen as a bit of a smear on One's reputation, even if she was their best female tribute candidate this year by far. But at the parade the academy heads began to see that maybe they should've just cut their losses and sent in somebody who wasn't quite so strange, like the girl who likes wearing crocks and socks. At least that wasn't the same degree as strange as zombies.

…Right?

As always District One's chariot was the first one out and really that was precisely when things began to go downhill. The parade often had a dud or two, true, but it was never District One that was being laughed at!

Alas, it was this time. Radiant waved to the crowd and did his best to appear grateful and strong just as a good male tribute should, but Dollar… she had another idea. One that involved a megaphone and a whole lot of shouting.

"Attention humanity, both here for this event and watching at home, your lives are in danger! Stop what you are doing and train yourselves up for the zombie outbreak!" Dollar yelled, speaking with passion and a touch of desperation. "Just one bite and, without amputation, you are done for! You must be careful, strong, agile and know proper herb mixing techniques! Please, listen to me!"

The audience did, torn between one of three reactions.

The Capitol audience laughed at what they simply thought was an original attempt at a schtick.

The Outliers and even District Two were very, very confused at this display of nonsense.

District One tried to hide their faces and one of the heads at the academy drank themselves into a week-long coma due to excessive cherry shandy consumption.

President Orion didn't really care one way or the other as he gave his usual speech. If one of the career pack wanted to be an idiot and earn the role of this year's comic relief then so be it. It didn't impact on him.

* * *

Training was a bit of a mixed bag this time around. Sure, the weapons were always used and various training stations were the sight of some decent, potentially life saving knowledge… but as with every year, the tributes themselves were the source of all the serious action and interactions and the Gamemakers couldn't control who they were. One rigged reaping was rare. Having all the tributes be rigged was a ridiculous thought.

That lack of control was what led to things such as the tiny boy from Six throwing up all over the Head Trainer's shoes after accidently swallowing a fly. The same lack of control led to the pair from Eight tripping into a rack of heavy clubs, one of which ended up falling down and damaging the foot of the angry girl from Ten.

It also led to a rather heated confrontation between Dollar and Claudia from District Two. Dollar had made it clear that she wanted to go it alone, fearing the 'inevitable failure' of being in a team. As anybody else would've expected, Claudia did not take this well.

"Are you insane?" Claudia balled her hands into fists, her knuckles turning white from the pressure. "Why do careers keep ditching the pack before the arena? First Rook, then Dragon… what possible reason could you have? Making it easy or hard for yourself? Don't even say it."

"I don't want my brains eaten when you turn into zombies," Dollar replied, shrugging. "Group survival is nice and all, but when the reality is only a single person surviving it's kind of counter-productive to work in a team. Father would back me up on this."

"…That's it? Zombies?" Claudia shook her head in disgust. "Fine, whatever. If your rational is that weak then we don't want you anyway."

"Too right," Gex agreed, rolling his eyes. "I say we just find a pair of burly outliers to replace her."

"Agreed," Radiant said, glancing around the training centre. "I think Five and Seven have decent prospects this year."

The Careers soon left Dollar by herself, the boy from Two taking a moment to flip her off as he went. Dollar didn't care, unphased as she moved to the poisons and antidotes training station.

Being the outcast didn't bother her due to that being her whole life. She was content with solitude; all it took, after all, was one member of the pack being infected to spread it amongst the mighty alliance.

She didn't show any fear at all when the buff boy from Five, the seven foot five inches girl from Seven and even the wily, cold mayor's son from Eleven were recruited to join the pack. They saw a powerful alliance, but Dollar only saw an outbreak in progress.

Dollar's social skills may have been worth hardly a one or a two, but her training was worth a ten in the eyes of the Gamemakers. The combat ability she possessed combined with her sheer survivalist nature made all of them see her as a clear frontrunner.

Of course, they would have preferred if Dollar had used her final five minutes to demonstrate further skills rather than make a plea for a hundred square mile zombie bunker and a special Peacekeeper force trained to hunt the undead.

After Dollar left it was only a moment before Head Gamemaker Loretta let out a hearty laugh.

"I think her reactions to this year's arena will be quite amusing," she said, a sadistic smirk crossing her face.

* * *

Loretta hadn't been wrong. The morning after the interview – where Caesar had been genuinely fascinated by Dollar's wild claims, having been something of a zombie movie fanboy growing up – the tributes rose up the pedestals to the arena that would be the final destination for all but one of the young souls.

No sooner had the pedestals risen into place Dollar let out a yell, her eyes widening in horror. It was only a brief yell, focus soon overtaking her as her eyes narrowed. She knew what this place was meant to be. She knew how to prepare herself for what was sure to be the most brutal Hunger Games yet.

She couldn't help but shake her head in pity at the other tributes. None of them had any idea what they were in for. They'd all failed to realise the blatantly obvious danger they were all in, all fearing each other rather than the monsters that were surely on their way.

The arena was a massive city, one in a state of disarray basked in an unforgiving night. Buildings were wrecked, cars were crashed, fire had numerous areas already ablaze and that was just the start. The entire place was a warzone to behold, like all civilisation has utterly collapsed. From the creepy park to the dead factory and even the police station that loomed close to the Cornucopia, all seemed filled with death and despair.

Dollar knew exactly what the acronym by the police station, 'R.P.D', meant and thus did not want to linger in the area for any longer than she needed to.

The gong rang, almost-but-not-quite drowning out a distant monstrous yell. Most tributes ran into the fray with only the weakest of the stragglers making a break for it into the dangerous city. Dollar was one of those who charged in and, knowing the truth of where they were, had the advantage of knowing what supplies she needed to grab.

Guns were off the table, but Dollar could still think of over two thousand killing methods with the supplies presented to her.

She sprinted halfway to the horn of plenty, easily outpacing most of the other tributes on her way to the precious bounty. Grabbing up a large backpack, a knife and a crossbow was the easy part of the opening melee. The hard part was making it back out when Claudia and the massive girl from Seven blocked off her path.

"You should've stuck with the alliance, zombie girl," Claudia said, a mace gripped in her hands.

"You've doomed yourselves," Dollar replied, firing off an arrow without hesitation.'

The girl from Seven yelled out in pain as the arrow became embedded in her foot. Dollar leapt over a stack of crates with Claudia in pursuit and shoved the small girl from Eight into the career leader's path, knocking her down like a bowling pin. By the time Claudia had gotten up and disposed of the textile girl Dollar had vanished into the city.

"Why'd you let her get away?" Radiant asked, having just decapitated the boy from Six.

"I didn't 'let her', she just got lucky," Claudia gave Radiant an annoyed glare. "We'll find her soon enough. Let's finish up here and get hunting before she can get too far away from us."

The bloodbath ended with eight tributes laying dead on the cracked concrete and several others wounded. Dollar and Claudia were among the lucky tributes that had survived the opening minutes unscathed. Some had cuts, stab wounds, nasty bruises or in the case of the girl from Seven a nasty arrow wound to the foot.

The careers decided that it did not matter if they had taken a few wounds as they still had numbers and sheer power on their side.

Dollar knew better and was convinced that it'd make the tributes easy prey for the monsters that would surely make their presence known sooner or later. She spared none of her remaining fifteen opponents any thought as she made a beeline to a distant apartment complex and, after making her way to one of the highest rooms, barricaded the door with all the furniture that was readily available.

"Gotta get off the ground, gotta prepare for the hoards," Dollar muttered quiet and fast as she fiddled around with the arrows she had swiped from the Cornucopia, carefully applying gunpowder and other such components. "No guns, but this oughta do it."

Dollar kept up the intense work on her crossbow, only pausing when a groan from the darkness caught her attention. She shuddered as she glanced out of the balcony window and down at the cityscape below.

"Nothing good ever came from this place," Dollar muttered. "Those careers and the stragglers are gonna be eaten alive."

Dollar gazed at a distant billboard atop a building across the street from her hideout, shaking her head at what she saw written on it.

' _Raccoon City, home of Umbrella!'_

* * *

The first day was particularly quiet after the bloodbath, the only action of note being when the girl from Four tripped on a rock and fell off a bridge. Her swimming skills saved her but made her the laughing stock of Panem for the night.

When the second day came by things began to get much more intense. That was when the mutts were released into the arena and there were a _lot_ of them. All thirsty for blood, all hungering for flesh and all with nasty, jagged teeth.

The zombies had arrived.

Dollar remained safe from them, for a time at least, in her hideout eight storeys off the ground. Few other tributes could claim the same sort of security. The careers were confronted by many zombies at midday whilst on the trail of the stout boy from Twelve. The melee that followed was bloody, savage and frantic for all involved due to how the zombies simply didn't feel pain from the swords, knives and maces the pack lugged around with them.

"…So, uh, I guess Dollar had a point?" Radiant said, awkwardly.

"Don't even go there," Claudia replied, hissing.

Numbers mattered in combat and that was why the careers managed to fight off the zombies without anybody getting bitten or otherwise maimed. The only injury came from Radiant tripping over and scraping his knee, the wound hardly phasing him for a second.

Three miles south, however, things were dire for Metallica from Five. The brash girl had been cornered by a group of six zombies. Not an issue at all for a pack like the careers, but impossible to take on for somebody all alone. She felled two of the undead freaks before one of them managed to bite her right in the neck. Her screams echoed on and on until her cannon fired.

The odd thing, however, was that the hovercraft did not come down for her corpse. Instead, just half an hour later, Metallica rose again and began to shuffle around mindlessly. All she knew was that she wanted blood and that the boy from Nine was the nearest tribute to her current location.

Infection had turned her into one of the undead. Metallica as a person was gone, but her body was still active to cause all kinds of trouble. Trouble such as eventually stumbling upon Jerrik from Nine while he slept and sinking her teeth into his shoulders at least four times. Two tributes of sixteen had joined the undead.

Dollar didn't know of this, holed up in her shelter and occasionally sniping zombies with her crossbow if they came too close to the building for her liking. With the gunpowder giving her arrows a truly explosive kick there was nothing stopping her from landing utterly lethal headshots that left small craters in the cracked tarmac.

"Common sense," she told the cameras as she felled a tenth zombie. "Why get within biting range when you can hold back and pick 'em off at a safe distance. You only have one life, so don't get reckless with it unless you have to."

By the end of the second day the zombies had forced most of the tributes to fight or flee for their lives at least once. The zombies were slow, which led to easy escapes most of the time, but excitement came about when the career pack cornered the asthmatic boy from Six. His cries were mercy were met with laughter as the pack mangled him.

He would later turn out to be a lucky one, dying before the shit truly hit the fan.

No sooner had the small boy's cannon fired an announcement was played out for all to hear. Even the zombies appeared to hold themselves back, as if to ensure that nobody was unable to miss the message.

"Greetings tributes," the voice of Head Gamemaker Loretta said, her tone crisp, sly and purely sadistic. "Congratulations on surviving to the top thirteen. By now you are all aware that the city you are in is filled with hoards of the undead, zombies as one amongst you so helpfully put it. Zombies are powerful and for the most part your current weapons won't be of the standard that you will need to take them down."

Loretta chuckled again, the sound making even one or two members of the career pack shiver discreetly.

"But there is good news. A feast will be held at the Cornucopia in twelve hours, one where your attendance is _**mandatory.**_ If you do not show up… well, I think you can guess what will happen. Food, water and superior weaponry will be provided for you all. Additionally, a special advantage of sorts will be up for grabs. If you find it and use it then you will be the most big and powerful being within the arena. Good luck…"

Dollar was wary of what she had been told, knowing that even reaching the Cornucopia was not going to be a simple matter. This wasn't just a way to ensure some fights and deaths, but a way to ensure that the Games would not drag on in the same way the Ninth Games had so many years ago.

The digital clock displayed in the sky told Dollar she had just under twelve hours to make it to her goal. Knowing the way easily enough Dollar decided to get some sleep before the inevitable danger of the next day presented itself.

She and all the tributes had their minds on one particular thing – what was the special advantage?

Dollar figured she would find out when she got there. Until then, she settled down under a ragged blanket with only the groans and moans of the undead to help her drift off to sleep.

* * *

Dollar made it to the area just outside the Cornucopia with time to spare. She hid herself under the bonnet of a car that had its engine long since removed, peering out in case a zombie or a tribute were to come by.

Silence was her companion for a while, aside the cannon that boomed twenty minutes before the Feast would start. Nobody present knew it at the time, but Felicia from Four had fallen victim to the undead ganging up on her and had joined their numbers.

The audience watched as the minutes ticked by without anything happening. Some in the Capitol huffed and whined at the lack of action, while those in the Districts were glad for each minute their children lived on without attacks on their lives.

A gong rang out as the timer trickled down to zero and a table of supplies rose up from the ground. The no-gun rule was still in effect, but the weapons were clearly a step up from the norm. The swords were sharper, the knives seemed to glow, the maces had much sharper and deadly spikes than ever seen in the past and even a pair of sticks of dynamite were on display for anybody bold enough to claim them.

The career pack charged into the battle ahead of the others. They grabbed up the weapons, swiftly killing off the pair from Three without mercy.

"Alright!" Gex cheered, laughing as he stomped on the unmoving boy from Three's corpse a few times. "Just five more to go!"

"Four more," Claudia corrected as she smashed the brains of the girl from Eleven with her mace.

"There are still ten tributes. That makes it nine more," the boy from Eleven added coolly, not hesitating to quickly move in and stab Gex in the back of his neck.

As the tributes battled in groups around the Cornucopia the zombies began to amble closer from the nearby streets. Dollar charged for the food and water supplies as soon as the opportunity presented itself. Radiant passed by her, willing to let his District Partner go just the one time, but Goby from Four had no such reservations.

Dollar, too, had no reservations. Least of all reservations about driving a machete into Goby's chest. She left him to die, wanting to get out before it became too late. Already it seemed like only seven tributes were left, soon to be six due to how battered Branchette was after her duel against the short, fast cowboy from Ten.

A second gong had all the savagely brawling tributes pause for a moment. From the tail of the golden cornucopia rose a syringe resting upon a fancy magenta cushion. The advantage.

Claudia abandoned her pursuit of Larri from Eleven to instead make a charge for the syringe. Dollar watched as Larri and the boy from Five ran away in opposite directions and then at how Radiant and the boy from Ten were mounting the Cornucopia in hopes of claiming the special syringe. Dollar ran past the half-dead Branchette to try and take a shot at the tributes who were packed so closely together.

Her aim was just barely off, the arrow sailing onwards and hitting a building. The explosion was enough of a distraction for Claudia to punch Radiant off the Cornucopia and break the hand of the boy from Ten. She laughed as the cowboy ran off in agony, rolling up her sleeve.

"Alright then, time to put the odds in my favour. Permanently," Claudia let out a dark chuckle, jamming the syringe into her arm.

After a brief wince she relaxed, letting the mixture do its job to her insides.

It all went downhill after that.

Claudia let out a scream, a second scream and then a shrill third scream. Her voice quickly went from an icy feminine to a guttural growl as her body began to enter a rapid-fire metamorphopsias. Her muscles became far stronger, her skeleton began to stretch out until she stood over three meters in height and her face started to look utterly twisted and almost demonic.

"Oh shit," Dollar took a step back "Shit, shit, shit."

"What? What did she do?" Radiant asked as he stumbled closer to Dollar, his lower back throbbing from the fall he had taken.

"She just injected herself with the G Virus!" Dollar screeched. "Attacking is futile right now, run for your life!"

Dollar only had to take one look at Claudia's increasingly monstrous form to know she was right and thus fled into the darkness of the city. She only paused to send an arrow into Birchette's head as a mercy kill and to yell at Radiant to run.

Radiant did the smart thing and fled for his life. The Games had been utterly turned on their head in under an hour and he didn't want to be anywhere near the monster.

He decided to be near the zombie survivalist expert and ran in pursuit of Dollar.

* * *

The third day of the Games dragged by at a particularly slow pace, not that anybody really minded due to the insane amount of carnage from the previous day. The remaining tributes had scattered around the city of the dead, none willing to go out and explore too much.

Larri was content to hide in the police station's basement while the boy from Ten chose the further out hospital. The boy from Five wandered the park aimlessly, no destination in his mind. Dollar and Radiant remained out of sight in an old clocktower, the former trying to teach the latter a lifetime of zombie survival skills in just one day.

The monster that used to be Claudia was on a rampage as it destroyed cars, zombies, buildings and anything it came across that wasn't unbreakable. It was unknown if Claudia was even a person anymore, if even a spec of who she used to be was still inside the monster that roamed around with a rocker launcher in hand.

Her cannon hadn't fired, so it remained possible that she could pull off a victory.

The same was not true of Larri who was found by the Claudia Monster that night, swiftly torn apart before he could do anything more than land a trio of sword slashes to the monster's chest. Not one slash was even a quarter of the way to being fatal.

Miles away the Ones exchanged grimaces as the cannon boomed throughout the arena.

"Think it was the Claudia Mutt?" Radiant asked, hopeful.

"Unlikely. It would take extreme injury to kill such a beast, way beyond what our shitty weapons can do. Even my crossbow would probably stun her at best. It'd take over a dozen explosive arrows for some real damage."

"So we're doomed?" Radiant let out a frustrated yell. "Can they even allow a monster to win? Claudia isn't human!"

"Maybe they can reverse it? They may have had the antidote for the zombie apocalypse all along," Dollar frowned thoughtfully, peering out of the window. "Just a moment."

Dollar fired off several arrows one after another, felling several zombies. The last arrow was accompanied with the boom of a cannon.

"Who was that?" Radiant asked.

"Boy from Ten. He'd been bitten, I could see the blood on his shoulder," Dollar sighed to herself. "Honestly, I did the guy a favour. If you get bit your only hope is that it's somewhere you can amputate. He'd have turned before long."

"That's horrible," Radiant muttered. "This city is easily a bottom five arena, Dollar."

"Mmmm, I'd say Racoon City is more of a top twenty," Dollar replied.

"Wait, Racoon City? You know this place?" Radiant turned to Dollar, staring into her eyes. "Tell me everything."

"Not much to tell. Just an ancient video game that father had me and my sisters play as part of our zombie survival training," Dollar shrugged, indifferent. "If we're been specific this is the map of the third game, though perhaps a bit expanded. We're lucky they haven't unleashed a Gravedigger."

"…I don't want to know what that is," Radiant shuddered, his face paling. "Is there anything in this city we can use to kill that monster? If the Claudia mutt is dead then one of us is sure to win. The only other tribute left is Zolter and he can't take us both on."

"Uh… just a 'sec," Dollar got up and began to pace around the clocktower. "Think, think, think…"

Ten minutes of dreary near-silence passed before Dollar snapped her fingers.

"It's a longshot and I'm not even sure if the Gamemakers added it, but past the park is an old factory. It has a rail cannon, so…" Dollar gave Radiant a cheeky smirk. "Fancy an adventure beyond the park trainee?"

"…Trainee?" Radiant repeated.

"I mean, you're not a zombie expert. Just being realistic," Dollar replied, snickering. "C'mon, let's go."

* * *

Day three became day four with just as many tributes still alive. The factory was a fair distance away from the Ones, a journey made all the longer due to the increasingly high number of zombies roaming around. Between Radiant's sword and Dollar's crossbow they were able to make decent headway towards their goal.

Of course, the Gamemakers didn't want anything to be easy and so Loretta ordered her staff to unleash one of the nastiest mutts the Hunger Games would ever see.

The Ones heard it before they saw it, the ground beneath them rumbling violently. Dollar knew all too well what was going on while Radiant's lack of knowledge had him close to a panic attack.

"What is that?" Radiant hissed.

"The Gravedigger," Dollar replied. "We'd be better off trying to avoid it."

No sooner had Dollar said this the monster arrived. The park ground was left upturned and broken as the behemoth worm burst from the ground and loomed down at its prey. Its maw, filled with hundreds of razor-sharp teeth, was all Radiant could look at.

"Oh God…" Radiant took a step back, looking revolted.

"Run! Now!" Dollar yelled.

Both tributes ran in opposite directions and barely avoided the Gravedigger as it surged forth to the ground they'd stood upon only seconds prior. The pair of tributes climbed for their lives up opposite sides of the newly formed pit, both reaching the top only to be faced with different hazards.

Dollar was faced with over three dozen zombies, all thirsty for her blood.

Radiant was faced with the monster that had once been Claudia.

"Games…" the monster slurred, its voice merely a nasty growl.

Dollar had taken down ten zombies and gotten over halfway through the hoard before trouble reared its ugly head. Right as the Claudia mutt tore off Radiant's right arm and threw him down to the Gravedigger's pit a zombie snuck up behind Dollar.

The zombie that had once been Metallica took a nasty bite into Dollar's left hand. Painful as it was and terrified as it made Dollar feel it didn't prevent her from sending the zombie back with a knife to the eye and firing off an explosive arrow right at the Claudia mutt.

The mutt wasn't overly hurt by the arrow, but was knocked down into the pit. From there it was left to the Gravedigger's mercy.

As Dollar continued to desperately fight off the zombies she and most of the audience didn't even notice as Zolter, by now largely forgotten by the crowd, made a run from the bush he'd been hiding in and off towards the factory at the far side of the park.

By the time Dollar was able to make her own charge for the factory a cannon had fired and her left hand was nothing more than a bloody stump.

As Dollar herself had said, amputation was the only thing to spare one from becoming a zombie. Not that it made it any less agonising to live through.

* * *

The fifth day rolled around with little activity of the tributes that were still somehow alive in the city of the dead. Zolter hid himself inside a sort of item box in a quiet room off to the side of the factory while Dollar took a power nap and stumbled along lamely through a corridor flooded with ankle deep water.

Neither tribute was up for a battle, even with both knowing the finale loomed close. They assumed it was just each other left alive.

They were wrong.

The Gamemakers allowed them a break from the mayhem until the evening of the fifth day of the Games. That was when something worse than the zombies came out to play and drive the last tributes down to the lowest part of the disused factory.

Hunters.

The betas went after Dollar and the Gammas went after Zolter. Neither tried to fight them and instead ran for their lives. Dollar ran past a stack of flammable barrels and suddenly it was as if instinct took over. All the years of training came back to her and led her to fire an arrow at the barrels.

None of the hunters were alive to give her any trouble after the explosion, all of them left as scorched and mangled gore upon the factory floor. With relief and pain in her eyes Dollar kept up her hasty retreat.

She arrived at the depths of the factory a few seconds before a cannon boomed, the Gammas having devoured Zolter. Her sigh of relief trailed away into silence when the trumpets did not ring.

There was still one other tribute left.

"Who could it be?" Dollar began to pace and count on her one remaining hand. "Ok… dead, dead, dead… probably dead… saw them die… aw, shit, really?"

Dollar recalled only hearing one cannon during the mayhem at the park, one specifically for Radiant. Having been indoors at the time of the anthem she hadn't realised Claudia's face was not in the anthem of the dead.

"Ok, so on one hand that monster is still alive…" Dollar glanced around the room, her eyes lighting up when she saw a particularly massive electric cannon set up. "On the other hand, well… no, I guess on my same hand as I only have one… I have that rail cannon now."

Dollar worked fast as a growling sound entered her ears and began getting closer with each passing second. She'd pushed two of the three batteries into the massive charging system when the monster finally showed up.

"Damn, that Gravedigger didn't go easy on ya," Dollar muttered, grimacing at the mangled form that used to be the girl from Two.

The Claudia Mutt made a noise hardly even resembling a sound as it began to approach Dollar. One shot of the crossbow sent it stumbling backwards, its balance long since broken.

The only downside was that it had fallen against a particularly toxic looking puddle by the wall. Dollar could only watch in horror, rooted to the spot in terror, as her beastly opponent absorbed the contents of the puddle.

Dollar opened fire with more arrows but at this point nothing was able to stop the further mutation of the monster. It grew bigger, it became far more toxic, tentacles sprouted out, its face morphed into looking long and half melted, two new limbs grew in to replace the mangled ones and four new, evil eyes appeared upon the monster's face.

All six eyes stared at Dollar.

"…How can this thing be a contender to win?" Dollar muttered. "What happens if I die? That creature going on tour or something?"

One deafening roar cut Dollar off and had her fleeing as the beast spat a shower of acid from its gaping maw. The acid began to eat away at the metal floor while the monster started to crawl its way after Dollar, easily withstanding her few remaining arrows. All they accomplished was taking out one of its eyes and lightly scorching the beast's face.

"This would be easier… if I had two hands…" Dollar flinched, beginning to feel lightheaded from the terror that mixed with the pain of her wounds.

An explosion from within the monster popped several of its tentacles off, though it hardly seemed to notice. Dollar didn't stop to wonder what this was, instead leaping to the side of the monster's attempt to crush her under its mass of tentacles and limping her way to the third battery. By the time the massive beast turned around the battery had finally been shoved into place.

"Battery… connected… executing quick charge programme… preparing to… fire…" droned the CPU system's voice programme.

The cannon began to rumble, gathering all the power and energy it needed to let off what was sure to be a lethal blast. The beats reacted with a roar and spewing acid upon the cannon. The acid began to eat away at it, much to Dollar's horror.

"No, no, no!" Dollar muttered. "Only gonna have one shot… shit, can't mess this up… hey! Ugly! Over here!"

The Claudia mutt turned right as Dollar threw a knife at it, the blade sticking into its cheek. Slowly, the beast began to close in on Dollar with vicious, hungry eyes.

"Five…"

The beast let out some acidic drool, further mangling the floor.

"Four…"

The beast seemed to smirk as it noticed Dollar was cornered against the wall just beyond the cannon.

"Three…"

Dollar grimaced as the beast reared back its tentacles and gargled acid within its maw.

"Two…"

The beast stared down at Dollar, almost right into her soul.

"One…"

The beast moved right in front of the canon and was a second away from landing an agonising killing blow.

"FIRE!"

The rail cannon activated, the immensely powerful blast hitting the Claudia mutt at point blank range and tearing into the monster's flesh. Searing and incredibly mutilated from the blast, the mutt was sent flying and came down with a mighty crash at the far side of the room. It twitched, missing several of its limps and much of its mid-section destroyed or at the very least horrifically wounded.

As it lay dying Dollar limped over, picking up a fallen pipe on the way over.

"Maybe you're not a zombie, but I think I know what'll kill you all the same," Dollar said, raising up the pipe.

Six strikes of the metal object were inflicted onto the beast's face until it finally, _finally_ went silent. What was left of its foot gave a last twitch and then, for the first time since the Games began, the arena was completely silent.

The cannon boomed.

Trumpets sounded.

A door opened to reveal an elevator that would take Dollar up to the hovercraft on the roof.

As Dollar staggered her way towards the hovercraft that would take her home she paused, turning to the cameras she knew were all watching her.

"This is why we need a national security plan for the zombie apocalypse! You think this shit was bad? Imagine this but it's everywhere in Panem, not just an arena," Dollar shuddered, raising up her stump. "I lost my hand and I was _ready_ for this. Imagine what'd happen if it happened to people who were not trained."

* * *

Despite her reputation as a nutjob never really going away Dollar became rather respected overall after her Games came to an end. She fought hard and gave the Capitol some of the finest battles they had ever seen. It seemed nobody aside the families of the dead and the poorer Districts hated Dollar particularly much.

What Dollar had not known was that the Claudia Mutt was meant to be disposed of by the Gravedigger, but had been able to escape from it and, from that point, had gone rouge. Out of control by the Gamemakers, the human-turned-monster posed a severe problem. What if it had killed Dollar and won? Detonating its tracker had done nothing and if not for the Gamemakers adding the rail cannon for the sake of a truly authentic adaptation of the source material they'd have been left with a mutated beast as their victor.

As with the previous year Orion's trusty woodchipper received plenty of usage for all involved in the planning of the 'G virus syringe' while Loretta was hanged over a period of forty torturous minutes for the blunder.

Dollar was threatened to keep her mouth shut on just how close things were to going awfully wrong and to act as though she'd been in complete control of the situation all along. Dollar was more than willing to do so, only asking for one thing in return.

A zombie fighting sub-branch of the Peacekeeper force to protect the nation from the threat of the undead.

Orion granted the request, feeling he'd lose nothing by doing so.

* * *

After their ten second silence was over Katniss and Peeta moved further down the street until they came to the next face on the ground. A girl with firm eyes and frizzy hair cut short looked back at them.

"Seeder," Peeta said, a sad sort of smile on his face. "She seemed so nice when we met her."

"She was an ally I had really wanted. Shame it never turned out that way," Katniss paused for a moment. "Shame that a lot of things turned out the way they did."

* * *

And that was Dollar, quite the departure from a typical D1F if I do say so myself! I like to keep each Victor unique, of course, and especially so for careers due to how it can be pretty easy for them to fall into a mould of being a 'basic brute' at times. I figured why not break some stereotypes and have Dollar be from the fanciest District but also be a scruffy, weird and somewhat crazy zombie fearing nutjob. I think things turned out alright, though maybe I went too hard with the Resident Evil references? In any case, thirty two down and now another canon Victor looms. Stay tuned for more!

* * *

 **Stats**

 **District 1:** Peridot Gaudy (8th Games), Crystal McCree (14th Games), Bronze Marley (19th Games), Crown Martins (24th Games), Dollar Dettwieller (32nd Games)

 **District 2:** Baron Overwhill (4th Games), Runa Peace (7th Games), Olga Machete (10th Games), Rook Valiant (17th Games), Boulder Atherston (20th Games), Vercingetorix Carnby (25th Games), Dragon Batofel (27th Games)

 **District 3:** Honorius Perthshire (5th Games), Pi Orbit (22nd Games)

 **District 4:** Museida Selkirk (3rd Games), Mags Flanagan (11th Games), Tide Luther (23rd Games)

 **District 5:** Shunt Gaspar (12th Games), Isobel Sparks (18th Games), Crimson Flanders (29th Games)

 **District 6:** Chassis Macalister (31st Games)

 **District 7:** Pliny Aransio (2nd Games), Fir Buzz (9th Games), Jack Tylos (21st Games)

 **District 8:** Woof Casino (16th Games), Paige Murphy (30th Games)

 **District 9:** Mizar Aldjoy (1st Games), Gwenith Rosebud (13th Games), Teff Withers (28th Games)

 **District 10:** Stallion March (26th Games)

 **District 11:** Bear Redfoot (15th Games)

 **District 12:** Duke Saint-Rose (6th Games)


	34. Seeder Howell

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Hunger Games. They belong to Suzanne Collins.

 **Note:** Here we are, another chapter and another canon Victor as well. I kinda knew going in that it was unlikely Seeder would last overly long in CF, just a feeling I'd had in my gut, but I think she ended up being underutilised. So, what else to do beside giving her a good chapter to stand up and shine? Hopefully I did her justice, but I'll let you readers be the judge (and jury and executioner…).

* * *

"Seeder seemed so gentle and motherly when we met her," Katniss said, gazing down at the fallen Victor's face on the ground. "Do you know who killed her?"

"I never watched any footage of the quell," Peeta replied, distant. "…Seeder tried to hurt us. Real or not real?"

"Not real. She was ready to die for our safety… seems like she did exactly that in the end," Katniss let out a small, depressed sigh. "I never wanted people to die for me. Not one."

Peeta just nodded silently. There was no need for him to mention he'd been willing to give up his life for Katniss without regret time and time again.

* * *

 **33** **rd** **Annual Hunger Games**

 **Name:** Seeder Howell

 **Gender:** Female

 **District:** 11

 **Age:** 17

 **Kills:** 4

* * *

 **From A To F: Six Graded Moments of Seeder Howell's Life**

 **F**

Seeder was an only child. Or rather, she was the only child who managed to live past the age of five, given the rampant starvation and prison-like conditions of District Eleven. Food everywhere and not a bite to eat. After all, what's a few starving infants compared to the tragedy of a Capitolite not getting his tenth apple pie of the day?

Growing up in the aggressive slums gave her toughness, certainly. Being particularly strong and brutish was really the only way to survive on the streets of her District. Of course, it gave her something else that she simply could not ignore.

A desire for something better.

Poor and brutal as her life was, the fact remained that school was mandatory – if only to feed propaganda of the benevolent Capitol to the youth – and so Seeder was able to learn the basics of education in the dystopia she was born to.

More than the basics, in fact. When she put her mind to things it turned out that the more-than-just-occasional fist fighter was able to get some particularly decent grades across the board. All A grades, as a matter of fact.

Being of a decent mind spared her from having to waste away over several decades plucking food in the orchid's that she would never taste. Instead she ended up being appointed to the role of a teacher's assistant at one of the local schoolhouses. Quite the impressive job for somebody at the age of fifteen.

The problems began when she was left in charge of a lesson while the assigned teacher had to temporarily leave due to his wife going into labour. Only the man's many years of spotless service granted him the one hour break he needed. At first Seeder was fine to do as she was told and continue the history lesson.

That all changed when she realised the Capitol approved textbook was a complete load of shit. What kind of a teacher would tell the next generation things like the Capitol being immortal, all knowing and benevolent? A single day in Eleven proved all of it was wrong. It was blatant brainwashing.

So, Seeder told the class exactly that and soon delved into her own 'custom lesson' with plenty of examples of the Capitol's corruption and murderous misdeeds.

She was promptly fired from her job and given a public whipping that left her bruised and bloody. But even when whimpering in agony she didn't take back anything she said or make an apology.

"You could take several whippings off of your sentence if you'd just publicly say you lied about the wise, benevolent Capitol," the Head Peacekeeper had suggested. "Just admit you're wrong and apologise."

Seeder gave the man a firm look.

"I'm not sorry," she said.

"…Start over," the Head Peacekeeper told the man holding the whip. "Fifty more lashings."

It was, all in all, a fail like none Seeder had ever experienced beforehand. A loss of her job, a loss of most of her friends – being near the loud-mouthed girl was dangerous after all – and now a miserable future of picking up rotted fruit awaited her.

All because she hadn't kept her mouth shut and, instead, decided to tell the truth.

* * *

 **E**

Reaping day arrived like it always did: far too soon.

The youths entered their specific sections of the square of Eleven, lifeless and miserable. Gloom and terror were the emotions on display for the day, exactly the way that the Capitol wanted them to feel always and forevermore.

It was hard to have hope when it came to the Games. Only a single tribute from Eleven had ever won and he was hardly a well-liked figure. Few forgot the nasty deeds Bear Redfoot had done in his youth. Time did not heal all wounds, even in spite of the fact the sole victor from Eleven had not committed any offences in over fifteen years. He sat at his seat upon the stage, perfectly neutral. No danger about him.

Few would believe it, but he'd even been self-teaching himself psychology for several years now and was doing a damn fine job of it. He'd be well suited to help a victor through PTSD, much like he had for Teff on the rare occasions he saw her.

Of course, first of all he would have to bring home a Victor.

The first tribute reaped was a tiny girl from the twelve year olds section, openly wailing in despair as she approached the stage. Bear wasn't able to put any hope in a twelve year old winning. Everybody knew that tributes that young simply stood no chance…

"I volunteer!"

…But tributes aged seventeen certainly did. A new girl was making her way up towards the stage, her head held high and her fists balled. Thin and a bit bruised though she may have been – likely gang wars, a common enough story - she had a fire inside her that Bear couldn't ignore.

She had a chance. All he had to do was work out why she had volunteered, given she had claimed zero relation to the small girl who had by now ran off into the arms of her mother.

The boy who was reaped had no such saviour, the bitter and angry seventeen year old doing nothing aside from spitting at the escort when the man asked him how he was feeling.

Most would feel worried if they volunteered their way into the Hunger Games for any reason aside selfish glory and greed, and even then nerves were not unheard of. Seeder certainly felt a bit nervous, but at the same time she truly regretted nothing.

Her family had died out over the winter and nobody wanted to speak to the girl who questioned the Capitol and got publicly flogged. Between a worthless life of picking up rotten fruit for disposal and being able to spare one innocent person, one who'd been in that class all those years ago, the choice was pretty obvious.

All the same, Seeder did not want to die. But with a near certainty of zero sponsors and a poor reputation it seemed like she was doomed one way or the other. This was merely putting the inevitable on fast forward.

She felt like a complete failure.

She expected to get zero visitors.

She was wrong and certainly glad for it. The little girl she saved, Pip Applebee, came in with all her family to show gratitude and support to Seeder for saving her life. Despite how grave the situation was looking, Seeder couldn't call it a total failure.

She did, after all, have a few people cheering her on.

* * *

 **D**

The parade was a flop for Eleven as it tended to be almost every year. It was simply impossible to compete against the amazing costumes worn by the tributes of One and Two when the Elevens were generally dressed as either apples, spuds or carrots. Seeder's spud costume didn't win her any favour, not that she had really wanted to gain the favour of the savage crowd.

She stayed up late during the first night at the Capitol, late enough for Bear to catch her watching TV at two in the morning. He sat beside her, turning off the TV in an instant.

"Do you mind?" Seeder asked, frowning.

"Let me guess, you've already given up?" Bear asked.

"…Hard not to. I'd rather live, but I've made these savages angry before now. It's gonna be likely they'd just ensure I die," Seeder shook her head. "I'm gonna try to binge watch every episode of Fiona and Lawrence before the Games begin."

Bear paused, thinking to himself on what he could say to the young women beside him.

"Help me catch up here. What did you do to anger them?" he asked.

"I was given control of a class for an hour and told the students the history books were bullshit. Everybody knows the Capitol is full of shit, head to toe." Seeder shrugged, nonplussed. "I just said what we were all thinking."

"I see. So, you think that you cannot win because what you said made them mad?" Bear persisted.

"Pretty much. Life out there wasn't much better though; I just made the inevitable arrive faster," Seeder reached for the remote, only for Bear to move it out of her reach. "Hey!"

Bear laughed in response. He laughed until he noticed that his tribute looked like she wanted to throttle him.

"Seeder, I punched my escort, destroyed plenty of furniture on the train ride and caused so much trouble in the training centre that the Head Gamemaker had me poisoned before the Games even began," Bear looked Seeder right in the eyes. "If I can win after that, so can you."

"…You were poisoned?" Seeder repeated, stunned.

"Right before launch, yes. I had one hundred hours to win or I'd have died. Surprised nobody in Eleven really thought to ask about why I was so full of panic for the entire Games," Bear shrugged, calm. "Well, not like I can be too mad. The information never got out."

"Why didn't you say anything?" Seeder asked, curious.

"First of all, who'd believe me? I was a total monster all those years ago," Bear exhaled, shamefaced. "…Besides, whether or not anybody did, Orion made clear that he'd kill one eighth of Eleven's population if I did. It was no choice really. I kept my mouth shut."

Seeder didn't respond. Her mind was abuzz with a wide array of thoughts, her initial viewpoints on her mentor starting to change. This wasn't the hell raiser she'd be warned about growing up.

"So, what do I do?" Seeder eventually asked. "How are we gonna win these Games?"

"Think you have a shot now, hm?" Bear sounded amused.

"I didn't do anything half as bad as you and you still won. I think I have a shot after all," Seeder crossed her arms, a tough looking smirk on her face. "What do I do first?"

"Train and train hard," Bear said, serious as could be.

That's exactly what Seeder ended up doing. Throughout the three days of training she lifted weights, learnt about correct usage of spears, paid close attention to everything first aid trainer had told her about and made sure to make the effort to swing by the edible bugs training station, a place avoided by the other tributes.

Seeder hoped that the effort would pay off, especially due to the career pack being quite tough this year and being made up of six members, the Twos having made the decision to recruit the girl from Five and boy from Four. The Ones weren't happy about it but, regardless, were fine to go along with it… for now. Seeder had no such alliances, not even with her own District partner Viner.

Seeder ended up scoring a measly five. Not even halfway to the currently never-attained score of twelve. Bear noticed her bitterness and placed a hand upon her shoulder.

"Four is good," Bear assured her. "In fact, so is a two when you think about it. Gwenith only scored a two and ended up as the victor. Anything could happen."

"Anything could happen," Seeder repeated. "Anything… anything…"

Seeder had a hard time not imaging just how many awful ways to die were encompassed under 'anything'. Sure, there were theoretically infinite ways to win but the same could be said of the number of ways to lose.

Things were certainly below what Seeder could call average, but at least she felt a tad more hope than she had back in the judgement building. There was a chance that she could win and she was going to do whatever it took to make sure it happened.

* * *

 **C**

After the intensity of the previous year and how it had almost gone horrifically wrong the new Gamemaker team had decided to dial things back a bit to ensure such an almost-disaster wouldn't possibly happen again. The arena of the thirty third Hunger Games lacked mutts of any sort, the issues with those of the last Games too great to allow for any to show up for at least a year or two.

In fact, the Thirty Third arena seemed to be made to ensure that things were more or less the opposite of the Thirty Second's arena. No mutts, not a trace of urban terrain, absolutely zero viruses with metamorphic properties and plenty of food provided around the arena. The whole place was really just one massive fruit orchid. Apple trees, pear trees and much more grew all over the place in the miles wide arena with crisp, soft grass underfoot of the tributes.

The easy access to food, and the quartet of lakes within the arena, suggested a Games less about survivalist and more about pure combat. A year set up for loyalist Careers to thrive and the weaker Outliers to die.

This would have been the case, had it not been for Helm from One tripping over his shoelaces. His stylist had forgotten to die them mere minutes prior, leading to the hulking brute falling off the pedestals to his explosive death. It had happened rather close to the countdown, momentarily making the career pack freeze and giving the outliers precious time to make a desperate charge into the fray.

It was hardly enough time, however. Ten seconds gave the outliers a chance to garb supplies and perhaps a weapon, but not long enough to run away with their haul. The pack was still faster, bigger and stronger than they were. Lacking weapons the careers decided to do things in the oldest way known to humanity: fisticuffs.

The agonised cries and screams quickly broke out after that, as did numerous bruises and splashes of blood. The ghastly sight was enough to have Seeder about ready to throw up and flee for her life. But temptation was a strong thing in the arena and the sight of a golden backpack was too much for her to resist.

Seeder soon cursed herself for not knowing other tributes would be making a charge for it as well. She found herself locked into an alternation with the boy from Six for the backpack. Both teens grappled and yelled, pulling hard in a desperate struggle for the bounty. All the while other fights raged on and the corpses of seven bloodstained tributes lay around.

The boy from Six gained advantage before long, kicking Seeder to the ground. He didn't have a chance to raise up his axe before he collapsed on his side, moaning in agony. A long knife was lodged right into his back. A distance behind him was the girl from One, eyeing Seeder smugly.

Seeder leapt to the side to avoid the second knife and scrambled away as fast as he legs could carry her, only stopping to grab up a smaller sized teal duffel bag on the ground, still stained with the blood of the dead boy from Eight who lay crumpled beside it.

By the time the Gamemakers fired the cannons for the twelve dead tributes Seeder had made it a distance of four miles away and had reached one of the four lakes. She panted, gasped and wheezed, her lungs burning and begging for water.

She threw caution to the wind, drinking right from the stream until she felt like she was about to puke the water back out again.

"Ok, what did I get?" Seeder muttered, rummaging through the duffel back.

It wasn't a particularly great hoard of supplies. Indeed, hoard wasn't the correct word here – handful seemed more accurate – because all Seeder had was a flimsy knife, a tiny box containing three matches, a pair of fingerless gloves and a bone dry metal bottle.

"At least food won't be an issue, or water," Seeder remarked, gazing at the area around her.

Seeder began to harvest apples off of a nearby tree feeling that, all things considered, things could've been better and could've been worse as well. She may have gotten a throbbing bruise on her leg from where she'd been kicked, but at least a painful bruise was better than a nasty cut.

Her first day in the arena was perfectly average.

* * *

 **B**

It was quickly apparent that this was going to be a relatively short and violent Hunger Games. The lack of mutts and the readily available food and water kept the tributes in relatively good shape, thus ensuring that they could keep moving around quicker than in most Games and therefore increase the likelihood of fights breaking out with all combatants able to put up some kind of a show whether they lived or died.

Such had been the case on the morning of the second day when the Careers worked quickly to travel around and butcher the girls from Nine and Twelve. The afternoon contained similar action when Seeder came across the girl from Four, though the fast paced battle had ended without death as the fisher girl ended up fleeing for her life with a nasty cut torn open in her thigh.

Seeder watched as the girl tripped over, dirt getting into the wound, and soon rose again to sprint into the thickest part of the orchid.

"That's infection right there. Kills just as easy as a sword and a hell of a lot more painfully," Seeder said to herself, turning the other way. "The job's already done; she just doesn't know it yet."

Seeder glanced back for a moment, a spark of inspiration slowly igniting within her. With a score of four it was clear that long, drawn out combat wasn't the most ideal way for her to win. But, even after years of picking up rotten fruit and losing her future, Seeder's mind was intact.

She knew how to weaken her opponents. She'd already done it to the girl from Four, had she not? All she needed to do was gather up some dirt and ensure she could land a good stab upon the others who came her way.

Seeder spent the better part of an hour digging into the grassy ground and filling up her duffel bag with all manner of dirt. Before long the duffel bag, or the 'infection bag' as Seeder dubbed it, was ready to be put to the test. The only thing left to do was finding a tribute to serve that purpose.

Not the sort to go looking for trouble, Seeder kept to the lake. Hidden amongst a large growth of tall grass she remained out of sight of all other tributes who happened to come past the area.

All aside from the boy from Twelve. The gangly miner boy, having nothing to lose and being the reckless sort of teen, tried to go for Seeder in hopes of winning over a bloodthirsty sponsor or two.

The fight was short and savage. Seeder took a stab to her left shoulder, a bad one at that, but the boy from Twelve had a gash opened in his chest. As he stumbled, reeling in immense pain, Seeder put the infection bag to use. The dirt cloud that erupted around the miner boy made it easy for Seeder to make her escape and furthermore ensured that the boy's wound would swiftly become infected. Both he and the girl from Four were both dead kids walking.

Seeder's main issue was clear, however. The career pack. The five of them continued to prowl around in search of prey, all of them easily sustained on the fruit of the orchid and the water they'd gotten from the Cornucopia, lakes and sponsors. Taking them on at once was suicide.

Hidden away amongst a separate patch of bushes one mile south of her previous hiding spot, Seeder lay awake. How was she to overcome the pack all by herself? It was too late to form a new alliance with one of the four – or, as the cannon confirmed, three – remaining outliers. What other card was there left to be played?

Seeder remained awake long into the night, refilling the infection bag and trying to work out what she could possibly do to get out of this plight and towards the victor's crown.

Two cannons that boomed throughout the night, both for the tributes she'd infected, didn't provide answers but did at least give her hope. She was close to home and only one major, major obstacle remained.

* * *

 **A**

Time crawled by to the sixth day, during which Seeder was moving around between hiding places so much that her legs were beginning to burn from within. She was exhausted, even with the plentiful food and water. So tired, in fact, that it felt somehow worse than a knife to her knees.

But she was alive, a fact that only six other tributes could still claim. The careers and the particularly elusive boy from Three. Seeder had briefly came across the small boy, sparing him when he'd convinced her that if one of them kill the other they'd only ensure their deaths at the hands of the career pack later on.

The arena was massive per the norm and the fact two tributes moved around solo while the rest were in one big group… it slowed things down considerably, making it easy for Seeder and Ratchet from Three to survive as the hours went by. Before long the moon hung up high in the fake sky, another day ending as the anthem displayed the words the Capitol citizens hated to see.

'No Fallen Tributes'

Seeder didn't have even five minutes of peace. A cannon fired not long after the anthem had ended and, though Seeder wouldn't know for sure who had bitten the dust until the next day, she had a strong feeling it was just her against the pack of five.

She didn't like the feeling at all.

The silence of the night was broken when the sound of an intercom being switched on hummed across the orchid arena.

" **ATTENTION**. **ATTENTION TRIBUTES** ," boomed the voice of the temporary Head Gamemaker of the year, Bartimus Bronx. " **A HEARTY CONGRATULATIONS TO YOU ALL FOR MAKING IT TO THE FINAL SIX. AS A REWARD FOR YOUR EFFORTS OF SURVIVAL AND COURAGE A FEAST SHALL BE HELD AT THE CORNUCOPIA AT DAWN. IT IS RECOMMENDED THAT YOU ATTEND. GOOD LUCK, AND MAY THE ODDS BE EVER IN YOUR FAVOUR**!"

The announcement all but confirmed anybody who did not attend the Feast was essentially signing their own death warrant. For several terrible minutes Seeder felt all of her hope slip away. How could she possibly take on the pack at the same time?

She eventually calmed down and began to sprint in the direction of the distant Cornucopia, a thought occurring to her. She didn't have to fight the pack at once, just live long enough for one of them to attack a tribute who was not her.

She knew how she was going to pull it off.

Dawn arrived quicker than Seeder expected, though whether time seemed faster because of her nerves or due to the Gamemakers speeding things up was impossible for her to answer. She could only hope the Feast would start soon; she needed to take cover.

Much more specific cover than her spot crouched behind a stack of unopened crates within the golden Cornucopia.

As the earliest rays of dawn shone down upon the horn of plenty the ground in front of the Cornucopia separated. From the ground rose a pristine, wooden table with a silver cloth covering it. The table was filled up with bowls of warm soup, toasty fresh bread, sharp swords, bottles of crystal clear water and even a jar of strawberry bonbons.

Seeder ignored it all as she bolted from the Cornucopia and under the table. She remained there, perfectly still and barely daring to breath. Her continued existence relied upon her remaining undetected.

Five minutes went by before the pack arrived. They moved around the table, oblivious to Seeder's presence, and split their focus between eating, drinking and keeping an eye out for the last remaining tribute outside their alliance.

"We should split off into two groups," the girl from Two suggested. "We'd find her faster if we covered more ground. She'll be somewhere nearby. Maybe even watching us now."

"So long as I get to cut her I honestly don't care what we do," the boy from Two replied, letting out a content sigh. "Damn, this soup is fine."

"Why don't we just fight it out right now. That girl scored a four," the arrogant girl from One added. "Whoever wins out of all of us could take her out. Back me up Four."

"It's Finbarr, not 'Four'," muttered the fisher boy. "I think there's safety in numbers… but if you're looking for a four on one battle…"

"Leave me out of this," muttered the girl from Five. "I'm not fighting anybody until we work out where that last tribute is."

It went on like this for several long minutes. The pack remained oblivious to how close Seeder was to them and their tempers only began to worsen as the pressure continued to mount.

Seeder remained knelt down in silence, keeping a careful ear out to know exactly where all five pack members were located. She waited and waited until, after a full hour, Finbarr and the girl from One were in a screaming match to Seeder's left. They stood so close to one another that their noses were almost touching.

Seeder made her move when the Finbarr told the girl from One to not touch him unless she wanted a swift death.

Seeder kicked out her foot at Finbarr's own. In his angered state he had believed the rich girl of the Luxury District had done so. Seeder resumed her silence as the fisher boy drove his knife closer and closer to the career girl's neck. At the same time the Twos exchanged a silent agreement that the alliance was done and tackled the girl from Five before she could scream.

It was absolute carnage for the viewers to witness as the cannons confirmed the deaths of Minx and Sawyer. A third cannon soon confirmed that the gigantic boy from Two was dead, having been critically wounded when, in her final moments, Sawyer had rammed a throwing spike right into his heart.

The fisher boy and the quarry girl circled each other around the table ten times before either spoke a single word.

"Let's wait for the other one," the girl suggested. "In previous years outliers have won because they jumped the gun and killed each other too early. We should stay together for now."

"I'm an outlier two, you know," reminded Finbarr. "…But, agreed. If she's not here soon then the Gamemakers will probably just force her over."

He hissed, muttering about the gash across the right of his chest. The girl from Two echoed similar curses over the nasty open wounds on her left arm.

Seeder took the chance to make her, hopefully, winning move.

She burst out from under the table and bashed the girl from Two to the ground before she could react. Finbarr readied his spear but he'd barely readied it for a quick lunge before Seeder set off the infection bag for a third and final time. He and the quarry girl shouted and yelled from the nasty feelings of the dirt filling up their wounds.

"Kill her!" the Two girl roared, struggling to grab for her fallen cutlass.

Finbarr made a solid try, almost hitting Seeder with his spear. He missed and the chase was on.

The nation watched in wonder as, for the next forty minutes, Seeder ran for her life throughout the orchid with the two remaining members of the pack in hot pursuit. She wheezed, gasped and moaned from the horrid feelings of exhaustion but willed herself to keep running. She's landed the final blow already, all she had to do was let time to the rest for her. So long as the other tributes did not catch her she would be able to win.

The quarry girl dropped first, half an hour into the chase, infection finally setting in. The dirt had entered her bloodstream and was quickly shutting her down for good. Seeder and Finbarr didn't hear the canon, both in too much pain from sheer fatigue as they staggered on without the fallen career girl.

Seeder dropped first, physically unable to run any further. Finbarr made it within ten steps of her before he, too, collapsed to the ground. For twenty minutes the tributes lay in pure agony, hardly holding on. Finbarr's infection was horrid but Seeder had pushed herself almost to the point of a heart attack.

Sure-fire infection kills better than an almost heart attack and that was why Finbarr did not live to hear the trumpets of Victory. Seeder was too tired to physically make her way to the ladder of the hovercraft, instead having to be gently taken on board by the claw of the hovercraft.

Seeder won via weaponised infection, but to her this was merely the beginning. She'd gone from rock bottom to finally having something resembling a second chance of making something of herself. After surviving the agony of the arena she knew what she wanted to be, even moreso than a teacher.

A rebel. One to help those who couldn't help themselves, one to do their part to ensure that the Capitol would eventually burn, one to teach youths right from wrong and one to do anything it took for the greater good. Seeder never regretted her choice to rebel in any way she could, regardless of the cost it required of her.

A little over four decades later when the Victor Quell came about and Seeder lay bloody and broken on the rocky island of the Cornucopia, the handsome man from One moments away from bringing down a sharp axe into her chest, she still didn't regret it.

The handsome man, however, regretted it… but that's another story.

* * *

"She did her District proud," Katniss said, saluting Seeder's imprinted face.

"That she did," Peeta agreed.

The pair continued down the street and soon enough came by the next face on the ground. The face of a very shy boy looked back at them, seeming particularly flustered. His hair was sleek and cut short, while his nose appeared point. Bushy eyebrows and several freckles completed the look of the lowest scoring victor of them all.

"The boy who scored a one," Peeta noted.

"What an accidental legend Snag was, just like Chassis one," Katniss remarked, starting to smirk.

A few moments passed before the pair burst into laughter at the thought of the absolute humiliation the Capitol had suffered in the disastrous Thirty Fourth Hunger Games.

* * *

There we go, Seeder's tale has been told! Like I said, I've always felt she could've done more in Catching Fire so hopefully I did her justice here. Plus, I kinda always found it odd that in the movies we are told infection is killer but it never really happens. So, figured it'd be fun to explore infection based murders as part of a Victor's strategy. Hopefully it was a decent read for you all. Stay tuned, some serious carnage looms near! :D

* * *

 **Stats**

 **District 1:** Peridot Gaudy (8th Games), Crystal McCree (14th Games), Bronze Marley (19th Games), Crown Martins (24th Games), Dollar Dettwieller (32nd Games)

 **District 2:** Baron Overwhill (4th Games), Runa Peace (7th Games), Olga Machete (10th Games), Rook Valiant (17th Games), Boulder Atherston (20th Games), Vercingetorix Carnby (25th Games), Dragon Batofel (27th Games)

 **District 3:** Honorius Perthshire (5th Games), Pi Orbit (22nd Games)

 **District 4:** Museida Selkirk (3rd Games), Mags Flanagan (11th Games), Tide Luther (23rd Games)

 **District 5:** Shunt Gaspar (12th Games), Isobel Sparks (18th Games), Crimson Flanders (29th Games)

 **District 6:** Chassis Macalister (31st Games)

 **District 7:** Pliny Aransio (2nd Games), Fir Buzz (9th Games), Jack Tylos (21st Games)

 **District 8:** Woof Casino (16th Games), Paige Murphy (30th Games)

 **District 9:** Mizar Aldjoy (1st Games), Gwenith Rosebud (13th Games), Teff Withers (28th Games)

 **District 10:** Stallion March (26th Games)

 **District 11:** Bear Redfoot (15th Games), Seeder Howell (33rd Games)

 **District 12:** Duke Saint-Rose (6th Games)


	35. Snag Nakamura

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Hunger Games. They belong to Suzanne Collins.

 **Note:** Here we are, a very 'special' Hunger Games that I've been rather looking forward to writing. I thought long and hard as to how somebody could score as low as a one and somehow end up as the Victor… the rest, as they say, is history. Hope you readers enjoy!

* * *

"He got lucky," Katniss said. It was a statement of fact. "About the luckiest of every Victor, even Spud."

"It does kind of show Haymitch was right when he told us to run from the Cornucopia… of course, nothing like what happened could ever repeat," Peeta chuckled. "It's awful, really. So cruel, quick and pointless… but I can't hate it entirely. Not when… well…"

"The Capitol looked stupid. I understand," Katniss said, gently holding Peeta's hand.

* * *

 **34th Annual Hunger Games**

 **Name:** Snag Nakamura

 **Gender:** Male

 **District:** 7

 **Age:** 14

 **Kills:** 1

* * *

It was the worst birthday that Snag had ever had. Most of the time the scrawny youth from the southern areas of Seven would get a tiny jar of honey as a birthday present, perhaps with a fine strawberry if he were lucky.

On his fourteenth birthday the escort saw fit to give him a gift of her own, pulling his name from the reaping bowl and ensuring he had the status of being that year's male tribute. It was all but certain that nobody would volunteer for him. No boys had done so since Jack and even the wily thief hadn't exactly been willing to.

The citizens of Seven watched with dismay as Snag hobbled his way towards his inevitable doom at the reaping stage, his parents' distant screams and wails merely a depressing afterthought to the nasty sight they were all seeing. Snag was quite unlike the prior tributes seen in District Seven for reasons instantly clear.

He staggered unevenly on crutches, his legs mostly unable to support his weight. Lacking much in the way of money things like a walking frame or a wheelchair were merely a pipe dream for the poor boy. Cystic fibrosis was the culprit behind his slow, torturous approach to the stage.

The Peacekeepers eventually took some pity and, at some prodding from Fir, helped Snag up the stage and let him sit on one of the empty seats. Their brief display of hospitality did nothing to bring him out of the near panic attack that he had entered. Nobody with a condition like his had a chance in the Hunger Games. None! Even Gwenith, the lowest scoring Victor of all, had at least been able to run. Snag couldn't even do that.

The escort trilled out more pointless chatter, trying to hide her disappointment of having reaped a tiny girl with excessively thick glasses and a crippled boy.

Snag couldn't hide his fear. He was dead, it was as simple as that. The bloodbath was to be his demise and, even if he somehow survived it, how could be possibly outlive the career pack? What about the mutts, traps and even the tough Outliers that popped up here and there?

He was carried into the Judgement Building sobbing for his mother. His life was already over.

It was a tearful goodbye, perhaps the saddest one ever seen in District Seven. In years gone by the families of the dead tributes had the ability to at least hold onto the fact their child had a small chance of winning the Hunger Games. Snag had no such chance; he knew it, his mother knew it, his father knew it. They all knew it.

They were only given fifteen precious minutes together before the Peacekeepers dragged Mr and Mrs Nakamura away, leaving Snag all alone to think over his fate.

"If I'm doomed… really doomed… I guess now's the time to get everything out," Snag whispered, wiping away a tear and narrowing his eyes.

He politely requested a pen and notepad from a Peacekeeper who came to check on him, the woman having some pity for the boy. Generally, Peacekeepers who had become familiar with Fir were softer than the others… not that there was any real way for most people to know that.

"Scared?" she asked him.

Snag's squeak that almost led to vomiting was a pretty solid indicator that he was.

Time ticked away all too quickly. Snag was a fast writer but even so it was hard to write down his final letter to his home. There was so much he wanted to say, some of which he couldn't quite convey during his interview.

He left the notebook in the care of one of his friends who had only managed to convince the Peacekeepers to let him in with five minutes left to go.

"Let everybody see it, please," Snag had said. "Pleak, please."

"I'll do it mate," Pleak promised. "What's written in here?"

"Everything," was Snag's soft reply.

Snag was soon loaded onto the tribute train with his District partner and off to his certain death at two hundred miles an hour. With Snag already feeling a world away, his weeping parents read through his journal. They took in everything written on the pages like it were gospel.

Snag wrote of how he loved them, how he always felt guilty that his condition meant he couldn't earn his keep like other children, how he didn't want them to feel too bad forever as they couldn't have done anything to stop this… on and on it went, the weeping parents only becoming more overcome with grief with every passing second.

Snag's admission to having secretly been feeding sparrows with precious spare crusts and his pleading for forgiveness for wasting the food had them bawling.

The book was passed on to Snag's friends at school. In it Snag thanked them for including him on activities regardless of how hard it was, for carrying him around the forest so that he could experience nature with the rest of them, for helping him study for the spelling tests he hated so much and more besides.

There were no dry eyes.

The final page of the book was reserved for a girl in his class, Paisley Wendell. Her eyes widened and she dropped the book, tears flowing down her face when she saw what had been written on the page.

" _I love you. I'm sorry I never was brave enough to say it."_

There were many pillows left tear stained that night in Seven.

* * *

Snag's life was ending.

Head Gamemaker Hessian Leblanc, however, felt that his life was truly starting!

After the Thirty Second Hunger Games ended with most of the Gamemakers sent through Orion's patented trusty woodchipper a power struggle for the top spot had begun. It had only gotten more and more frantic since the previous year. Bartimus Bronx had only wanted the position a single time, simply intending to make sure the Games could actually happen. True to his word he'd stepped down and gone back to his initial spot on the statistics team.

Cue pandemonium.

It had taken double dealing, backstabbing, a bit of top-tier blackmail and a few rigged voting stations but in the end Hessian had done it. He was the Head Gamemaker and, so long as his first Hunger Games were a success, he'd be guaranteed the spot for several years to come. The future looked bright to the young man.

"How's the arena coming along? All done?" he asked one of his underlings.

"It will be finished in approximately fifteen minutes," the underling replied promptly. "All that really remains is ensuring the temperature of the arena is just right. Mere heat checks, that's all."

"Perfect. Give me a visual."

On command the main monitor within the Gamemaker's control panel showed a gorgeous ariel shot of the arena. Hessian was always one to watch the mistakes of others and learn to avoid them, hence he had forgone any sort of underground arena or a city full of zombies and had instead gone for something a bit more standard. Or, as he'd insist was the case, delightfully retro. It was generally assumed he had no idea what that even meant.

All the same, few would argue about the arena's quality. The all-terrain environment was visually wonderful and sure to provide plenty of challenge for the tributes to survive in. Those that were alive after the bloodbath anyway. There were sprawling hills, rocky cliffs that stretched up to occasionally become mountains, a grand lake a mile wide and all kinds of lovely flowers scattered around – poisonous, of course – with the Cornucopia at the peak of a dangerously steep hilltop surrounded by trees.

Hessian thought it was flawless. It was all his to do with as he wished. He had absolute power and control.

The only thing he could not entirely control were the tributes. It occurred to him that the reaping recaps would be on and thus he ordered another underling to have them shown on screen.

He didn't feel disappointed. District One had a pair of absolute monsters, District Two had some powerful quarry workers covered in tattoos, District Three had a rather sneaky looking girl, District Four had a pair who seemed burly enough to pass as pirates… it was a good selection.

The only disappoints in his eyes were the druggie girl from Six whose hands rattled and shook from withdrawal symptoms that were already flaring up and, of course, the pair from Seven. As he'd later claim in an interview the next day he would have expected crappy tributes from Twelve. Not so much from Seven.

But in the end, what did it matter? He had some powerful tributes, a wonderful arena and a life of fame set in stone if he could simply make the Games enjoyable for the Capitol citizens and terrifying for the Districts to be forced to watch.

Life was good.

* * *

Mr and Mrs Nakamura sat in their humble home, their modest dinner hardly touched. How could they focus on anything, really, when their son was many miles away and set to die in under a week?

The wooden crutches propped up by the wall were a constant, a haunting reminder of what they were going to lose. And yet, the couple couldn't bring themselves to put them away.

The crutches would soon be one of the few reminders they would have of their dear son.

They'd intended to stay in for a quiet night to watch the tribute parade, but fate and the unfair rules of their dystopian home decided otherwise. Given how they were the direct family of one of the tributes they were soon forced from their home by several of the Peacekeepers to watch the parade in public at the District square. Like the family of the female tribute, Gillian, they were put on a raised platform. They were told to see it as an honour.

They knew disagreeing would only get them killed and remained silent. With Fir mentoring in the Capitol there was nobody to keep the rowdier Peacekeepers under control or, more accurately, not quite so eager for blood.

The parade began after some commentary and banter between Caesar Flickerman and a few of the most popular, high-status newscasters of the Capitol. District Seven paid absolute zero attention to the chariots of One and Two. The Sevens were a fairly prideful sort and held only contempt for the careers who willingly trained and entered the Games out of greed. They spared Three a glance, always willing to show a touch of pity for the reaped tributes.

Really though, only District Seven's own tributes mattered. Sure enough they came out after the typically poorly performing District Six chariot. Gillian had been dressed up like some kind of a tree elf. The Capitol laughed and pointed as if the poor girl were an animal in a zoo. Both Gillian and her family cried.

Snag's parents could only watch, awed at what their son had been dressed to look like. Gone were the crutches and in their place was a state of the art wheelchair. But that wasn't the main highlight going on.

The highlight was how Snag had become royalty!

The crown, the glorious cape, the sceptre he held up high with his right hand and the numerous shimmering gem-like leaves covering his clothes and wheelchair stood out as grand and glorious. It seemed his stylist had turned him into some sort of Forest King. Snag was plainly terrified, but held the worst of it back to play his part. A king was calm, not crying, after all.

For a few precious seconds Mr and Mrs Nakamura thought that Snag may have a chance after all. The Capitol audience were all cheering for him, even sounding genuine.

But then one of the newscasters remarked that Snag had a ninety nine in one hundred chance of being caught and having his neck broken by Amazingness from One before taking four steps forwards.

On cue the helpless, suffocating feelings of depression and loss had the Nakamuras held firmly in their clawed clutches.

* * *

It was quickly apparent that Snag was going to be unable to do almost anything that the training centre offered. If it wasn't mental based then he was never going to be able to pull it off. Running, climbing, the gauntlet, sword fighting, wrestling and even basic kicking. It was an impossibility.

Hence, Snag wheeled himself around in his wheelchair to listen to instructors at the edible plants, first aid and water finding training stations. If his mind was all he had to work with then what was exactly what he would use.

It was hard though when, in his heart, he knew he was done for. What help was knowing how to find water when he'd never get to taste a drop before one of the smiling, deadly teenagers from One or Two would kill him in the openings seconds anyway?

Maybe he didn't give up out of refusal to be an easy victim.

Maybe he didn't give up so as to spite the Capitol who so eagerly awaited the sight of his innards.

Maybe some part of him was still foolish enough to believe he had a scrap of a chance if he was careful.

Perhaps it was instinctive desperation.

Whatever it was that kept Snag going it worked for the three days of training that he was permitted. He learnt the skills as best as he could, gave the careers no reason to specifically gun for him anymore than they already were and made sure to be friendly any time a tribute happened to come near him. Whatever kept him alive, he tried.

Hessian figured that such a pathetic scrawny whelp was never going to play a part of any description in his grand Games and told his staff to assign him a score of one. Realistically, he reminded them, Snag's score did not matter as he was quite simply done for no matter how hard he tried.

Snag felt his last flickers of hope starting to die out when he saw the one come up beside his name. His mentor, Jack, tried to think of some way to spin this into a positive. Alas, the thief had little to offer.

Fir moved from her spot beside Gillian – the girl seemed anxious, having only scored a three – and took Snag into a tender, gentle hug.

"Let it all out," she suggested. "It's easier if you let the tears falls when they gotta."

Snag cried in Fir's gentle embrace for most of the night, only being carried to bed once he'd cried himself into the realm of unconsciousness.

Fir exchanged a grim glance with Jack. She may be known as the dimwit of the Victors, but even she knew when facts were facts. Snag wasn't going to be in the arena for very long.

* * *

Hessian was going over the final checks with his staff while the tributes prepared for their interviews. Standard stuff overall, just the grunt work that had to be done no matter how unimportant it may have been.

"Is that it?" Hessian eventually asked. "Is that the final quadruple check that the grass smells alright?"

"We can officially confirm the arena is ready," one of his underlings said, saluting. "All that remains is stocking up the Cornucopia and putting the tributes into the arena tomorrow."

"Excellent. Now, make sure those weapons are sharp and painful. I want to hear those screams tomorrow," Hessian smirked, rubbing his hands together. "This is going to be amazing."

"Incoming call from the President," a different underling said.

"Put him on screen," Hessian ordered, as prompt as could be expected.

A moment later Orion appeared on the massive monitor. Despite the relatively friendly look that he sent at Hessian there was no mistaking the reality of how he'd send the man through the woodchipper if he so much as looked at him funny.

"Good evening Hessian. Excited for your debut as Head Gamemaker tomorrow?" Orion asked, softly chuckling.

"Always, sir," Hessian replied, saluting. "We're ready to begin. Just a matter of filling up the Cornucopia and that's always a one hour job, tops."

"Good, good. Now, I want you to ensure these Games go off well, alright? I don't need to remind you of what became of your predecessors," Orion's voice became chilling. "No cave-ins, no out of control mutts… just make it flashy, bloody and terrifying for those District vermin to watch. But most of all, make it explosive as you do all of that. This is a show after all. Give us a Games to remember!"

"Oh, you can count on me," Hessian promised, saluting.

"Is that so? Tell you what then… owing to how poorly a few of the past several Games have gone… if you can make these Games full of explosive terror and excitement as you assure then I will instate you as the Head Gamemaker for a full decade at bare minimum. Nobody will be able to touch your position. Can you pull it off?"

Hessian's eyes glowered with pure, selfish greed.

"I won't let you down," Hessian vowed, all kinds of nasty ideas entering his head.

"Good. See to it that you don't," Orion raised a glass up in toast. "To Panem, the Capitol and twenty three glorious cannons."

Hessian toasted Orion in return and the call ended. All was silent for a minute as he plotted what his next course of action would be.

Orion should have said nothing. But you know what they say, one often meets his destiny on the road he takes to avoid it.

"You!" Hessian barked to one of his underlings. "Slight change of plan."

"Will it put us behind? We have barely over sixteen hours to get ready," the underling replied, nervously.

"It'll be simple," Hessian assured the woman. "Orion wants explosive? We give him explosive. I always thought that I could do a one-weapon-only Games better than the farce of the Ninth Games. Gather everybody up, I want them all to hear the plan."

Hessian had his audience hardly a minute later and detailed his plan to his staff. With the order given the swords, spears and serrated knives were all tossed out and replaced with hundred upon hundreds of a specific weapon never before seen in the Hunger Games…

* * *

Mr and Mrs Nakamura were once again forced into public eye to watch the interviews. As was always the case the Sevens booed the Ones and Twos until the Peacekeepers fired off warning shots. They remained silent after that, but not all of them hid their disgusted glares sent at the screens.

The interviews dragged on and on before District Seven arrived. The shaky girl from Six, Honda, left the stage howling from the painful withdrawal of the morphing she was so dependent on and, to the relief of the crowd, the incredibly lanky boy from Six came on after her.

His attempt at beat boxing went down as one of the ten worst Hunger Games interviews of all time.

Gillian's interview had District Seven filled with sympathy and her family sobbing. The girl barely spoke above a whisper, hiccupped tearfully every few moments and was so pale faced that it was almost like she had became albino.

She left the stage to scattered, quiet applause from the more polite Capitolites within the audience. That, of course, was when Snag was called onto the stage. He wheeled himself over beside Caesar and for a moment all was silent.

"I'm gonna die," Snag said, quietly. "You ever think about what you'd say if it was your final few hours on earth Caesar?"

"Honestly, I sometimes do," Caesar admitted. "I like to think that I'd have the time to recite one of my favoured poems or perhaps a chapter of my in-progress autobiography."

"I wish I had time to write some kind of an autobiography," Snag said, sinking down a little in his wheelchair. "I don't have much time for anything anymore. It's just… Caesar, let's not joke around. I'm done for. I can't walk… cystic fibrosis, y'know? Best I can do is try to last a full minute."

"Are you giving up, Snag?" Caesar asked, looking sympathetic. "We've had shock victors before. Like Gwenith, she-."

"-Could walk. I can't do that," Snag sighed, blinking away tears and wiping his eyes. "On the off chance anybody wanted to sponsor me… don't. Send it to Gillian, she's got a chance to go home. She runs a bake sale every two months at school, actually. Don't you want to keep that tradition going?"

That was how Snag's interview went. He accepted his own fate, reluctantly and with great depression of course, and used his interview to try and shift the odds into the favour of his District partner. The audience applauded Snag as he left the stage to try and make the most of what was likely to be his final night alive.

His District saluted him, the square silent aside from the crying of both families. Snag was doomed and even with his attempt to help Gillian everybody knew it was not going to be Seven's year by any means.

Neither tribute was going to be in the arena for long.

Mr and Mrs Nakamura did not sleep that night. It was impossible to do so when their only son was likely to meet his gruesome fate the next morning. They stayed up late, tears flowing down their faces as they recalled every single memory they had of their son. They wanted morning to never arrive.

They didn't know it, but Snag did the same many miles away in the Capitol. He searched the deepest parts of his mind for all the good memories he had of his short lifetime. He only regretted being too shy to approach Paisley and perhaps make more happy memories.

Morning came and all the Nakamura family wept as the minutes ticked down to the opening bloodbath of the Games.

* * *

The tributes were launched into the arena and Panem as a nation got their first look at the gorgeous all terrain arena. It was beautiful, just as it had been when shown to Hessian several days prior. The sun was shining, the flowers were practically glowing, the water was clear, the grass was crisp and everything about the arena seemed to ooze power.

That was when the tributes and audience alike got a good look at the Cornucopia and the supplies piled up within and around it. There were the usual items like backpacks, stacks of blankets, a few sleeping bags, bottles of water, loafs of bread and even some tubs of fruit and vegetables.

But there was not a single tradition weapon to be seen. No swords. No spears. No axes. Not even a single, tiny dagger. The second of the four one-weapon-only Games in the history of Panem had only one type of weapon available.

Hand grenades.

The explosives were piled all around. There were easily over a thousand of them littered around the clearing. The careers looked confused, but soon shrugged it off. The outliers, meanwhile, were all the more unnerved. A few growls set off by the Gamemakers to add some atmosphere had screams ringing out, several tributes now too afraid to flee into the woods without a weapon. They assumed monsters awaited them.

Snag, towards the left of the semi-circle of pedestals right between the boy from Five and the girl from Nine, simply let out a depressed sigh. Knives or hand grenades, the end result was the same for him.

But if he was going to die, he'd die like a man… or at least as close to one as he possibly could.

Seeing that his pedestal had ramps attached to the sides to allow for his wheelchair to properly dismount towards the ground gave Snag an idea. The steep hill he and the others had been launched onto made his idea all the more obvious.

As the timer ticked downwards Snag carefully turned his wheelchair around on the spot so that he was facing in the direction of the forest that awaited him and the other tributes at the base of the hill. Live or die, he at least wanted to make it past the tree line.

The gong soon rang out and the tributes made a charge for the array of supplies scattered around the golden horn of plenty. Some stuck to the outer edges, others ran right to the heart of the action and Snag, all alone, sent his wheelchair down the ramp as he began his hasty retreat.

For several moments Snag faintly smiled as he rocketed down the hill. His wheelchair was perfectly balanced, the thick tires clearly made for this sort of action. It was almost like some kind of a roller coaster, like the ones he'd read about that existed in a time long before Panem.

A deafening explosion blasted behind him. It was like a roar of a fearsome dragon, the noise leaving Snag's ears hurting badly and the force of the explosion sending his wheelchair into the air.

It came to a crash past the tree line and Snag was sent flying from the seat. He lay in a crumpled heap, dazed and confused by what had just happened. With shaking arms Snag forced himself to turn over onto his side and look back towards the Cornucopia.

His eyes widened as he took in the insanity.

The top of the hill had become a black crater with fire burning hot and smouldering ash raining from above. The smell of crispy, burnt flesh hit Snag's nose and almost caused him to vomit then and there.

There were so many bodies, all of them charred and mangled beyond recognition.

Snag didn't put the pieces together right away, but in retrospect the accident was quite obvious. An accident that only happened due to Orion's offer to Hessian making greed override the Head Gamemaker's common sense.

What happened had not even taken half a minute. Honda had charged into the fray and grabbed one of the hand grenades. She'd tried to use it on the boy from One who came near her, only for her withdrawal to make her hands shake badly. Dropping the grenade had been all it took, really.

One explosive was effective. But over a thousand at once was outright _lethal_! Sixteen of the tributes had been vaporised in an instant as the chain reaction went off. Most of the others were badly injured, screaming and crying as they tumbled down the steep hill until they landed in painful heaps. The boy from Eleven met his end right after this.

Hessian was dragged kicked and screaming from the Gamemaker control room, his execution ordered to be carried out right away and made as painful as possible. His cries and begs went completely ignored.

The Capitol and the Districts watched in sheer confusion, bewilderment and horror at what had just happened. Was anybody in any state to even fight in the Games anymore?

The cameras showed the pair from Three moaning in agony, too hurt to know what was going on anymore. The boy from Five hobbled around as he entered the north area of the forest, the left half of his face horrifically scorched and crispy. The girl from Eight was passed out from the impact but, despite her arms being useless down, was somehow alive. The girl from Nine whimpered pitifully as she squirmed around helplessly in a clump of tall grass – she wouldn't last long. The girl from Twelve screamed like a madwoman, clutching the mangled stump where her left arm had once been, already starting to enter a fit of madness from the carnage.

Snag, completely unharmed aside from a bleeding ear and a small bruise on his chest, starting to drag himself along through the mighty forest as best as he could.

As the seventeen cannons fired to mark the end of the bloodbath the betting odds were adjusted. Snag's odds rose from a pitifully awful 145-1 to a shocking 3-1. The best odds in the Games!

After that it was all too easy for the sponsor funds to arrive for a bottle of water, a freshly baked pizza and a sharp knife to be sent down to him. After the disastrous opening it had been decided that bending the initial hand-grenades-only twist to send in a single knife wasn't going to be an issue to anybody.

In the square of District Seven all eyes slowly turned to look at Mr and Mrs Nakamura. In the space of just a few minutes they had gone from crying in grief for their surely doomed son to being in a state of silenced wonder. They could only stare at the screens, watching their young son dragging himself along through the forest.

"It's a miracle…" Mr Nakamura whispered.

Mrs Nakamura shushed her husband, quick to remind him that Gillian's family were howling in despair. Their little girl had been taken out in the initial explosion, dead before she even knew it.

"Maybe not a miracle exactly," Mr Nakamura conceded. "But, dear, Snag's alive… he's alive. He could come home…"

"He will," Mrs Nakamura whispered, starting to believe the words she was saying. "He _will_."

* * *

Orion fumed, the Capitolites whined over the Games being so short and the Districts – those who weren't crying over the deceased, that is – laughed at their tyrannical government. But whatever the reacts to what Panem's social media would go on to dub as #GrenadeGate there was still a victor to be crowded and tributes to die.

As anybody could have guessed it did not really take long for it to happen after the initial carnage occurred.

Of the seven survivors, only five managed to get into the forest at all. Neither the girl from Nine nor the girl from Twelve made it, their wounds being far too severe. From there the girl from Eight passed away from her own horrible wounds during the first night.

The boy from Five staggered around insanely, Snag hid under a large patch of clovers and the pair from Three whimpered, joining hands as the reaper gently approached them one step at a time.

By midday the pair from Three had finally died, leaving just Snag and the boy from Five. This boy, a bulky lad by the name of Ramirez, was still able to walk around. Snag could never match this, but the fact Ramirez had started going mad made the betting organisers claim it could go either way at all.

It was completely even split with both tributes being designated 5-1 odds in the looming brawl.

They began fighting as soon as they met, mainly because Ramirez had tripped over Snag without knowing he'd even been there. The final battle began, all cameras showing their duel off to the nation.

Perhaps duel was too strong of a word. Panem watched as the boys wrestled and fought on the ground, both trying to gain some kind of an advantage over their opponent in the desperate struggle. Snag was weaker than Ramirez, but unlike the boy from Five he didn't have a scorched face and other wounds distracting him from the fight. It was a finale that could have ended up going in any way at all.

District Five yelled desperately. District Seven pleaded and shouted. The boys kept on struggling, trying to quickly eliminate their opponent. This moment did not arrive for over ten minutes.

Eventually Ramirez sent Snag reeling with a hard punch only to collapse himself right afterwards. With a nasty black eye Snag dragged himself over to his fallen, exhausted foe and let out a single, quiet sigh.

"Sorry buddy."

Snag fumbled with his knife and stabbed it down into Ramirez's chest. Not long after that the cannon fired, leaving the nation with the most unlikely of Victors.

Snag lay on his back on the forest floor, wheezing and gasping from the intense duel he'd just won. Tears welled up in his eyes as the trumpets rang out, the world around him starting to grow blurry. Despite how shaken he felt from killing a fellow human and from all the grim memories associated with the explosion he couldn't help but let out a weak, relieved laugh.

He was going home.

* * *

In those days Capitol technology had not reached the point where they could simply cure something like cystic fibrosis overnight. That wouldn't be until around the time of the Sixty Eighth Games. Until then, it'd likely be a long process of over two years before Snag was going to be able to walk around on his own.

Until then the Capitol gave him perhaps the best, most fancy wheelchair they'd ever built in all the years of their tyrannical regime being in power. Snag was able to get around with ease for the after-Games events such as the victory party and the final interview.

None of that crap mattered to the youth from Seven. Not when his family were waiting for him back home in his District.

Snag returned home five days after the final cannon had boomed. He felt broken from the traumatising experience and knew all too well his survival was a pure freak accident. He was never meant to win. He had been meant to die.

Seeing the cheering crowd through the window as the train pulled into Seven made Snag decide he was never going to apologise for getting lucky and staying alive.

District Seven cheered and applauded for their newest victor as he was wheeled off of the train. His family and friends flocked him for several long, wonderful minutes. All of them telling him they loved him, had missed him, had never given up on him. Snag knew at least a few had, understandably in his opinion, given up on him but couldn't get the word out due to Mrs Nakamura's vice-like grip on him.

And then she walked up.

The crowd went silent as Snag saw Paisley Wendell slowly approaching him. His family and friends backed away for a moment so that he could wheel himself over to the girl he'd had a crush on for the past three years. For a moment neither of them spoke.

"…Hi Paisley," Snag said, awkwardness and nerves making his voice crack. "It's good to, um… see you…"

"It's good to see you too, Snag," Paisley blushed, covering her face. "Welcome home."

A few moments passed before Paisley leaned over to give Snag a kiss on the cheek.

"Um… ice cream on Friday?" she suggested, blushing from all the cheers of the crowd.

"I'd like that," Snag agreed, blushing even moreso. "I'll be there."

Embarrassed as he was Snag felt an emotion he'd never truly felt before in his life. One that was inevitable to feel after surviving the Hunger Games, becoming rich, getting a date with the girl he liked and being assured by the Capitol that one day he would be able to walk.

Happiness.

* * *

Orion watched all of this on his TV in his mansion's living room. He fumed and snarled, utterly disgusted that the helpless bug had been the one to make it home. Two dozen other rooms of the fancy mansion had been trashed in his latest rampage of fury, only a fine beer from his personal assistant Snow calming him down even slightly.

"Thank you Snow," Orion said, finishing the drink. "This decade is going badly. Those little rats keep laughing at me. At the Capitol! Sure, the Thirty Third Games went alright… but other than that? Three awful Games they'll never let us forget. We need to make the next Games _**painful**_."

"I couldn't agree more," Snow replied. "Shall I start spreading the word for new Gamemakers to join the team?"

"Yes, do it. In fact, while you're at it, see if you can dig up any dirt on those scum who have intent to challenge my position. A little blackmail might hold them off until we can make a great Games happen and get the citizens to forget about this," Orion exhaled, utterly ticked. "One of your contacts must have something right?"

"I believe so. I'll ring him now and see what he has to say. Back shortly, sir," Snow bowed, leaving the room.

Snow left Orion to his drink and moved through the president's manor until he came to the kitchen. Seeing it was empty he quickly moved himself into one of the pantries and started a call.

" _Hey man, need something_?" Bronze asked from the other side. A few moans sounded out distantly. " _Kinda in the middle of something here. Three somethings, actually. Heheh_."

"I only need you for half a minute, if that," Snow assured his partner in crime. "I think it's time that Orion was given an early retirement. Get people whispering, get them unhappy. Do that and before long I'll be able to give you anything you want."

" _Done and done_."

Snow soon hung up, a smirk crossing his face. This wasn't a smug smirk or even a sadistic smirk.

This was a smirk of pure evil.

* * *

"Snag will go down in legends for many, many years," Peeta said. "They say we all get forgotten one day, but Snag… I'm not so sure."

"Either way he sure made his mark on history. I think what happened there ws what my mother would call a happy accident," Katniss replied. "I hope Snag was one of those who survived."

After a moment of respectful silence the pair from Twelve resumed their walk down the ever so long street. They soon came to the next face on the ground. The imprinted face showed a goofy, almost ditzy looking girl with her eyes crossed to form a silly face. This, her long ponytail and a beanie hat gave her a fairly stand-out look.

"Librae Ogilvy," Peeta said, reading the name written below the face.

* * *

I think we can all agree that the Games we just saw were particularly explosive, huh? …Ok, I'll let myself out. T_T Regardless, I had fun writing that and hopefully you guys liked reading the carnage as it played out? I've seen plenty of stories where weak tributes win and stories where those aged twelve win. Thing is, I've never seen a tale where a tribute of any sort scores a one and wins. It just doesn't seem to happen. So, enter Snag! Perhaps a bit on the loopy side, but I think this made for a fun tale and ideally Snag himself was a fun character, or at least one to root for? Stay tuned for more!

* * *

 **Stats**

 **District 1:** Peridot Gaudy (8th Games), Crystal McCree (14th Games), Bronze Marley (19th Games), Crown Martins (24th Games), Dollar Dettwieller (32nd Games)

 **District 2:** Baron Overwhill (4th Games), Runa Peace (7th Games), Olga Machete (10th Games), Rook Valiant (17th Games), Boulder Atherston (20th Games), Vercingetorix Carnby (25th Games), Dragon Batofel (27th Games)

 **District 3:** Honorius Perthshire (5th Games), Pi Orbit (22nd Games)

 **District 4:** Museida Selkirk (3rd Games), Mags Flanagan (11th Games), Tide Luther (23rd Games)

 **District 5:** Shunt Gaspar (12th Games), Isobel Sparks (18th Games), Crimson Flanders (29th Games)

 **District 6:** Chassis Macalister (31st Games)

 **District 7:** Pliny Aransio (2nd Games), Fir Buzz (9th Games), Jack Tylos (21st Games), Snag Nakamura (34th Games)

 **District 8:** Woof Casino (16th Games), Paige Murphy (30th Games)

 **District 9:** Mizar Aldjoy (1st Games), Gwenith Rosebud (13th Games), Teff Withers (28th Games)

 **District 10:** Stallion March (26th Games)

 **District 11:** Bear Redfoot (15th Games), Seeder Howell (33rd Games)

 **District 12:** Duke Saint-Rose (6th Games)


	36. Librae Ogilvy

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Hunger Games. They belong to Suzanne Collins.

 **Note:** Here we are, the Thirty Fifth Hunger Games! Halfway towards Annie's games as any HG fan would know and, if you paid attention to Urchin's timeline, the Games of a person he mentioned in passing. Perhaps not as utterly insane as the previous Games were, but not every chapter can be ridiculously OTT. All the same, hope you all like Librae's tale. :)

* * *

"Know anything about this one?" Katniss asked.

"Not much. Just that she was said to be a really good surfer," Peeta replied.

"What's surfing?" Katniss asked

"Don't you know? It's a thing they do in Four; riding waves with boards. Annie says it's a really popular pastime," Peeta said, raising an eyebrow., "How'd you not know that?"

"I've had bigger issues to focus on in life than surfing," Katniss stated. "Trying not to die, for example."

* * *

 **35** **th** **Annual Hunger Games**

 **Name:** Librae Ogilvy

 **Gender:** Female

 **District:** 4

 **Age:** 18

 **Kills:** 4

* * *

In District Four there are quite a few 'factions' of people that make up the grand, varied population. There are the sailors, the factory workers, the lifeguards, the youth who occasionally try to become careers in the Hunger Games and even a few lacking their sea legs who end up in office jobs, if that.

Then there are the surfers.

With Four being right by the sea it's only logical that they are by the beaches as well. Some areas are polluted, but others are simply gorgeous to behold. Such grand places are where the surfers roam and perform their water stunts. Upon the waves they make things like spins, flips and much more complex tricks look so easy.

Librae is perhaps the best surfer in Four, or at the very least somewhere in the top five.

She rides the waves like some kind of a sea queen. She performs moves that would make any other surfer crash and burn amidst a humiliating splash. She always keeps her cool and manages to see a bizarre upside to anything.

She's also a bit of a ditz.

Now, Librae is not what one could call stupid or a complete fool. She'd never bombed a test and she did have a basic awareness of the world around her. However, she lacked in common sense. She was the sort who could easily perform a physical manoeuvre, name any ocean related fact needed or create some amazing artwork on a canvas… but she was also the sort to eat food that had been on the ground and claim the 'five hour rule', touch a sparking battery to see what would happen and she was known for accepting any dare sent her way.

That's why, three days before the reaping, Librae is balancing along a beam set out over the churning, salty, filthy water of a busy dockyard. The goal is simple, walk from one end of the beam to the other. A hundred meters without any break in-between.

Librae accepts the dare with a wink, a grin and a demand that once she accomplishes it her friends will pool money together to buy her a beer.

One would assume Librae would take one step, perhaps six at most, before falling into the water and looking like a dumb prat. But Librae has excellent balance and that is why she's halfway across the beam in just a minute. Her friends watch, stunned, as she parades across the beam. She shoots them a cheeky smirk, practically strutting her way across.

"Get ready girls and boys, I think some of you are gonna be buying me some beer~!" Librae sings, laughing joyously. "Oh wait, no, all of you will be!"

A noisy foghorn fills the air as a boat drives through the dockyard. A tanker, due to transport oil to one of the busy fishing rigs further out from the mainland. It doesn't stop to let Librae safely get onto solid ground.

The beam bends, snaps and bounces apart in an instant. The force sends Librae up into the air with a shout as the remains of the beam fall to the ocean. The foghorn sounds again, the boat leaving the harbour without its driver even noticing the girl he may have run down.

Amazingly, Librae somersaults through the air and lands on her feet in front of her fellow surgers. She winks, making finger guns towards them.

"So, buy me some peach shandy, yeah?" she says, snickering.

Librae would accept any dare at all, but more to the point she could complete any dare as well. Whether she was surfing, working or just walking around her world seemed to operative on a rather simple system.

If something looked like a bad idea, sounded like a bad idea and needed a dare to do it… it's be CRAZY! In eighteen years this hadn't gotten her into any harm yet, aside the odd broken bone or dislodged joint here and there.

"I'm a surfer, it's just an occupational hazard" was her typical response to any sort of injury she received.

Partly Librae just did all this for thrills and fun, but it was a bit more than that deep down. Librae liked people to think she was a foolhardy idiot.

She liked to be underestimated and seen as a dumbass.

After all, asking too many questions and being far too smart for witnesses was the very thing that got her mother hanged and her father beaten into a coma. 'For treason', she was told.

* * *

Mere days after her eighteenth birthday the reaping for the Thirty Fifth Annual Hunger Games came by. Even a year later people were still laughing over the insanity of the year prior. With several blunders in the decade already it seemed as though the Districts' natural fear of the Capitol was lessening. It was a toss-up whether the Capitol's inevitable attempts to enforce their will by upping the torture would pay off or just make things worse.

Either way, Librae took her spot with the eighteen year old girls and waited for the reaping to just get over and done with already. There were some killer waves that she wanted to ride on for the bulk of the afternoon.

"I triple donkey dog mutt dare you to volunteer," one of her best mates, Scallop, suggested with a cheeky grin.

"Back at you except it's a quadruple deadbeat donkey donut dog mutt danger dare," Librae replied, winking.

"…Yeah, I'm not insane," Scallop laughed, raising her hands in mock surrender. "That's one dare nobody oughta take, Lib."

The surfers trailed off into silence as the escort – dressed like a neon pink chicken, naturally - plucked a paper slip from the reaping bowl and read it out for the nation.

"Librae Ogilvy."

With a remark about no dare being needed after all Librae approached the stage without showing anything aside a half-goofy expression. Years of practise in the art of looking like an idiot make it easy for her to sell the act of being a simpleton to the nation.

"What's up, Librae?" the peppy escort asked.

"Uh… the sky?" Librae replied, a finger to her chin.

The awkwardness prompts the escort to let out a flustered sort of giggle and quickly move to the second reaping bowl, plucking out a paper slip. The reaped boy, a half blinded fourteen year old, is spared when a boy from the eighteen year old section volunteers. It's quickly apparent that Lure has no relation to the boy reaped prior, simply in this for fame and fortune.

Museida scoffs in disgust at the sight of another Career from his own District. Mags keeps her gaze neutral until she hears more. Tide starts working out the odds of either tribute coming home and if she'll bet on her own District this year or perhaps take a gamble with District Five.

Librae just keeps a goofy, slightly vacant look on her face as she surveys the crowds and the cameras. She ponders what to do first, knowing that the Games have begun.

She gives the camera a friendly wave.

* * *

The ride on the tribute train is slow. Perhaps not literally due to its immense speed, but certainly in how time seems to drag to a crawl aboard the Four team's tribute train. From Museida being displeased to have to mentor a career – even if his desire to save a life overrides hatred for those sadistic types of tributes – to Tide already on the phone with somebody in the betting business the atmosphere quickly becomes tense.

So tense in fact that Librae wonders if the mentors have forgotten about the tributes they are supposed to mentor. Figuring that they have Librae chows down on the food and leaves the room, intending to catch a good nap and maybe read a book.

Ok, mainly just the nap.

"Where are you going Librae?"

Librae glances back at her escort and gives a casual shrug, letting a vacant look fill her eyes.

"Oh, y'know, somewhere that's not where I am now," Librae replies, giggling. "May as well explore since the tension is, like, gnarly."

"Gnarly?" the escort blinks, curious. "I've never heard that word."

"Surfer slang, my gal," Librae returns to the table, sitting beside the escort. "It's the lingo though of us who ride the waves know best."

As Librae sits back down she and her escort, whom introduces herself as Tuti, begin a pleasantly animated discussion on surfer lingo and the beaches of Four. This being her first year as Four's escort Tuti pays rapt attention, eager to learn more.

They talk on and on until eventually Lure has to smack the table in front of them to get their attention for even a moment.

"Hey, we're discussing tactics," says the powerful boy. "I'm planning to join the Career pack and I think you should as well. Librae, wasn't it? You seem strong enough to stand a chance of getting in."

"But… aren't the Careers evil?" Librae asked, tapping a finger to her chin. "They might hurt me."

"They'd kill anybody, including each other," Lure replies, shrugging. "I'm just saying, if we both join their alliance then Four is more likely to have a victor. I don't want to be the odd man out in that pack, Lib."

"Weeeeeell… okie dokie," Librae puts on a relaxed, slightly goofy smile. "But I'm not trained or anything. I mean, I'm on a train right now, but…"

"…Just let me do the talking," Lure says, slightly shaking his head.

Watching the reaping recap is a highlight as it always is. Two beautiful sadists from One, a pair of bloodthirsty warriors from Two and then a pair of tiny brainiacs before Librae sees herself and Lure on stage.

She feels unsure of the first four being her allies, but smiles as one of the commentators calls her special.

"You hear that, I'm special," Librae giggles to herself. "Kickass dudes."

"I… don't think it was a compliment," Tuti says, uncertain.

As the other mentors and Lure continue watching the recap with rapt attention Librae leans towards Tuti's ear.

"I know. I'm just messing around," Librae whispers. "I got this."

Tuti cannot help but smile eagerly. She's the secret keeper to a powerful girl exaggerating her doofus side. What fun!

* * *

After Four made a smash debut in the parade with a combination of Lure's sea demon costume and Librae's athletic display on the chariot it was common sense for the Ones and Twos to seek them out right away from the moment training began.

Beauty and Coolio from One shook hands with Lure while Di and Bronn from Two awkwardly let Librae high-five them. From there the pack of six began to train, train and train some more.

It was soon apparent that not only was the pack stronger than they were in most years – which, to be fair, was already quite strong – but there were factions forming within the pack itself. The Ones were incredibly close due to being lifelong friends back home, the Twos had been sparring partners for twelve years and… well, Lure and Librae were close by default.

"We need to stick together in that arena," Lure tells her as they work on their skills with tridents.

"With glue?" Librae asks, having not dropped the simpleton act.

"No, bait brains," Lure groans. "I mean we need to be each other's closest ally. The Ones are tight and so are the Twos."

Librae knows what he means. It'd be impossible to not notice the bond that the other duos have. But Librae always was a bit of a cheeky troll whenever the opportunity presented itself. She cannot resist the chance she's been given.

"Tight? I never took you for such a naughty flirt!" Librae giggles giving Lure a cheeky wink.

It takes Lure a while to regain his composure and resume his talk on battleplans, his face burning red from the implications of Librae's words. In the end he's only able to stammer out that they need to stick together and split from the pack when the numbers fall to around ten or nine left.

"Okie dokie," is Librae's response to most of what Lure says.

* * *

By the time the private sessions arrive the career pack have asserted themselves as hands down the biggest threats within the games. Even with Librae as a solid sixth in their group she's still far ahead of the unofficial seventh strongest tribute, the hulking monster of a boy from District Eleven.

But the private training is Librae's first true test of her resolve. If she scores too low then she's out of the pack, no doubt about it. Lure wouldn't risk his own spot to try and back up the 'simple surfer'.

"Librae Ogilvy, report for your private training session," says the automated voice.

"Wish me luck," Librae says with a cheeky grin.

Lure vaguely waves her on and Librae makes her way to the training hall, the place eerie and empty now that the usual clatter, shouting and desperate amounts of mass training aren't ongoing.

It's just her and the Gamemakers, all of them observing her as she makes her way to the centre.

She freezes in place as she locks eyes with a particular Gamemaker off to the side. A man with a rather tidy appearance and a scar upon his forehead. To many he's just another Gamemaker, but to Librae he's something far more.

She flashbacks to the day her father was beaten, and her mother was hanged. This man, once a Peacekeeper who had forgone his helmet in the raid, must have finished his service and changed his career.

He looks down at Librae, dismissive. He doesn't even remember her as the girl he punched to the side when she cried for her mother.

"Begin," says the Head Gamemaker a second time.

Librae springs into action as she demonstrates everything she has picked up over the past few days. Trident usage, knife fighting and even binding a wound with a tourniquet. But Librae fears her technique is sloppy from the anxiety of her mother's killer being one of the Gamemakers. Even her expertly displayed swimming doesn't feel as effortlessly easy as it normally would. All she can picture in her mind is _that night_ …

She manages to keep her composure, but it's a very close thing overall. By the time Librae is back in her room she's rattled and hardly showing the image of the airheaded surfer she'd been crafting for so long.

She cries that night. Even the fact she scored a nine doesn't give her much to feel good about.

* * *

Librae's interview goes well enough, her goofy persona making it easy to charm the spoiled and oblivious audience. The silly jokes, the dimwit mannerisms, the tales of riding waves in Four… all this and her score earns her odds of six to one. Hardly the worst ever seen.

Her interview was also a load of fake crap. Librae told barely any truth at all, just sticking to an ideal fictional account rather than reality.

It's Tuti who she tells the tale of reality to later that night when the escort, having a night of insomnia, overhears her sobbing. To the escort's credit she's rightly horrified by what Librae tells her of what became of her parents.

"Dad might never wake up. Mom… well, you know what they say about the dead sleeping forever," Librae chuckles in her typical goofy way, though anybody could tell it was broken. "It's a lot safer to just talk a load of complete chum."

"What do you mean?" Tuti asks.

"My parents were too smart and got careless just once. The Capitol had them killed," Librae shrugs. "I figure if I just act dumb then I'll be safe. I already act pretty crazy so it's not hard to pull it off. Though, since I'm here anyway… whoops."

"Wait, wait… the Capitol did that?" Tuti stares with wide eyes, like her brain were breaking.

"I mean, Tuti… well…" Librae tries to think of a way to word things to the escort she'd befriended. "They kill twenty three children a year. Is it that strange to imagine they'd kill my parents?"

Tuti opens her mouth to voice a strong objection… and no sound comes out. The gears of her kind turn, realisation that Librae is correct setting in fast.

"What… what…" Tuti stammers, going bug eyed. "What's going on… I… I…"

"It's a dangerous world. Safer for idiots who don't raise a reg flag to anybody," Librae lays back on her bed. "Mind if you do me a favour? Don't forget me if I die."

"That's impossible," Tuti replied, her eyes starting to glimmer. "Because you're not going to die. You're going to be the Victor."

"By playing dumb?" Librae guessed.

"No, because you have something those other Districts do not have," Tuti flashed a grin to her barely younger tribute. "You have a great Escort backing you up. What do you think you'll need in that arena?"

"Well… food, water, a trident…" Librae trailed off at the look in Tuti's eyes. "Why, is there a correct answer, dude?"

"Let me put it this way," Tuti moved closer to Librae. "What do you _need_ to make it home? What would give you an advantage like no other and, unlike guns, is a legal sponsor gift? Think carefully."

After two minutes of the deepest thinking of her life Librae was struck by realisation. She knew what the ultimate sponsor gift would be.

The only question was if the arena would make it a viable thing to use.

* * *

Librae wasn't greeted by light, but by darkness when she and the other tributes entered the arena. For miles and miles around them black was the only colour they could see upon the ground. It was little wonder why; the arena was another desert, this one filled entirely with sand as black as the deepest shadows in the darkest of nights.

The sky was a contrast to the dark sand, being a blood red sort of crimson with a moon of an even darker shade. The whole place looked so… wrong. So… off. So foreboding. Aside the sand the only landmarks of real note were the occasional cliffs formed from gigantic, eroded boulders and the golden cornucopia

The Outliers trembled and the career pack readied themselves for the bloodshed and violence that loomed near… except for Librae. She just played around with her hair and fiddled with her beanie hat, her tribute token.

When the gong rang most of the tributes charged into the carnage with Lure leading the pack. Librae bought up the rear, observing the chaos going on from a safe distance as she scooped up minor supplies along the way.

It was chaos from the moment Lure jammed the prongs of his trident into the neck of the tiny girl from Three.

Librae cartwheeled out of the way as the girl from Seven tried to jump her with a knife and performed a further backflip to avoid the follow-up slash. The moment the girl spent staring in bewilderment at the acrobatics was all the time Librae needed to wrestle away the knife and cut the girl down.

The girl's district partner had seen what went on and made the move to attack. Presently Librae found herself face down in the sand while the boy from Seven pummelled her with his fists. Just as her back began to flare up in agony the weight upon her was gone.

"What the hell?" Librae cried out, slumping down again. "Dude, like… fuck…"

Librae forced herself to rise up and take note of the battlefield. Almost ten corpses lay in crumpled heaps with the last fights starting to wind down. She caught side of the massive boy from Eleven charging off into the desert just as Lure knocked out the boy from Seven and broke his neck.

"You ok?" Lure asked.

"Eh, kinda?" Librae accepted Lure's hand, letting him pull her up. "My back, man… ow."

The corpses were quickly counted up and notes made on what District they were from. Beauty was initially pleased to note that eleven tributes had died in the opening bloodbath, three by her hand, though that pleasure turned to annoyance when she saw that Coolio had broken his left arm in a fierce altercation with Rhett from Eleven.

"Urgh, useless," she spat, shaking her head.

"Hey, I only need one hand to use an axe," the boy retorted, grunting. "Somebody give me a painkiller."

Before long the career pack were all patched up and, once the bodies had been taken away, ready to go hunting. Of course, choosing who to keep as a guard set off the first of several arguments the pack would have that year.

"I'm not staying here. I had the most kills," Beauty put her hands on her hips, snorting. "We'd be worse off without me in a battle."

"Fine by me," Bronn said, trying to decide between which of the two spiked maces he would take with him. "I'm going, just saying."

"I mean, obviously," Beauty agreed. "Maybe Di should say?"

The girl from Two, mute aside the limited ability to make guttural growls and grunts, shook her head firmly. She gripped her spear, as if daring somebody to make her stay.

"Easy answer here, let's just have the guy with a broken arm stay here," Lure added after a moment of silence. "C'mon guys, what can he really do?"

"More than your partner can," Coolio hissed. "She's just a simple surfer."

Librae pretended to not listen, instead making a show of balancing on a crate and looking at the beautiful night sky.

"She has two working arms. That's more than you have," Lure stated, not backing down.

"Coolio comes with us," Beauty said, stomping her foot. "He's our best navigator and the simple surfer can't tell up apart from down."

It soon became a big argument with each career involved refusing to go hunting without their partner being there. Nobody wanted to have two guards remain behind and so the argument kept going, all the while giving the outliers a chance to cover more ground.

Librae thought it was rather funny seeing her allies shouting and barking like hounds. Far more amusing to look at than the corpses that had been laying around not even an hour ago. She discreetly gagged at the puddles of blood that remained, having not quite sunk into the sand just yet.

"Hey, dudes?" Librae said right before the argument turned into a battle. "Mind if I stay here? I've always wanted to try being a guard."

Her allies all stared at her, unblinking.

"Why didn't you just say that half an hour ago?!" Beauty yelled.

"Oh, were you talking? Dudes, I didn't even realise," Librae covered her face, as if embarrassed. "How bogus of me. My bad, dudes!"

One nasty tongue lashing later Beauty led her allies off into the desert, muttering about the 'simple surfer' as she went. None of the other careers had anything nice to say either. Even Lure had to admit that Librae's airheaded nature got grating after a while.

Once they were gone Librae dropped the act, letting out a deep sigh of mixed relief and pain.

"Jeez, those dudes need to take at least fifty chill pills," Librae remarked, shaking her head. "…And I need maybe a hundred pain killers."

Time passed without any sort of action or danger. Librae paced around, make sand angels and a sandcastle and even used some camouflage paints to make several fish pictures upon the cornucopia. All the while her back continued to ache from the numerous bruises she had suffered and not a single cannon fired.

Bored out of her skull Librae grabbed one of the wooden planks set by the cornucopia and started to use it as a makeshift surfboard.

Life seemed to enter her eyes as she surfed the dunes and sandboarded all around the cornucopia. As she pulled off a few acrobatic tricks the sponsor funds began to rise up and up. It was the most fun anybody had ever had in the always thankless job of guarding the supplies.

Certainly more fun than the terrified outliers were having as they hid away across the desert and more fun than the other careers who were nowhere near the outlier closest to them.

* * *

Day four rolled by, during which only one of the outliers had died, and it wasn't even a death from another tribute. Just dehydration. The lack of major action had the audience howling for more action, as even the admittedly fun tributes couldn't carry the show alone, at least not in the eyes of the Capitol citizens.

The Gamemakers were more than happy to unleash a few mutts they'd been working on for the past four or so years, thusly letting loose the sand sharks. Nasty, highly aggressive sharks that swam through the sand like it were a tranquil ocean.

It was easy for them to devour the pair from Nine in horribly graphic detail for the cameras to show to the nation. It was less easy for them to catch one of the Careers, the alliance having been on their way back from their hunt and taking some refuge upon one of the cliffs scattered around the desert. With no way for the sharks to reach them they were left perfectly safe from harm.

However, the boy from Twelve wasn't so lucky. Having been upon the same cliff as the careers he surrendered, weeping as he requested a quick death by the careers due to seeing it as the better way to go out than by the sand sharks. Lure did the deed without hesitation, quick and clean.

Around the cornucopia Librae found herself encircled by a trio of nasty sand sharks, the beasts getting closer with each completed circle. Rather than respond with fear however, Librae simply grinned at the approaching challenge as the sharks took their time moving closer to her.

"I've seen worse sharks back in Four," Librae said, chuckling as she crossed her arms. "Tuti! If you have the funds then send it down!"

The sonar of a sponsor parachute rang out as an item descended from the sky. It came to a landing right into Librae's arms not a moment too soon, its presence making Librae unable to hold back a genuine smile.

She looked over her surfboard, chuckling in near-glee. The signatures of her parents written on the underside with a new message from Tuti added – one of sincere encouragement – was all Librae needed to feel ready for what was to come.

"Surf's up!" Librae exclaimed, mounting her board and grabbing a short sword from the top of a crate next to her.

The speed of the sand sharks made the dark sand become unsteady, practically turning it into a series of waves just like those near Librae's home. In moment's Librae was surfing around the cornucopia and the surrounding area, easily evading the sharks and taking a swipe at them with her weapon any time they came too close for comfort.

"Oooohh, so close!" Librae teased, launching herself right up into the air and doing a 720' spin.

Time passed like this, the audience cheering over the exciting action until Librae slayed one of the sharks. Seeing this as acceptable action, the gamemakers called off the sand sharks. As Librae came to a stop at last all was silent within the arena, save for the surfer girl panting in mixed fatigue and relief.

Of course, such silence wasn't going to last forever. Not when the rest of the careers were starting to resume their journey back to the cornucopia.

* * *

"Hi guys, I thought you'd forgotten all about me," Librae waved to her allies as they made their way over to the silver horn. "How was the hunt?"

"Pathetic," Beauty spat. "Only one kill and he asked us to do it."

"A kill is a kill," Lure stated, shrugging. "Relax."

"It's not enough though. How many of us are left? Nine, that's how many. It's gonna be a nightmare tracking those three down in this kind of an arena," Beauty grumbled, gripping at her luxury item – a beret – with sulky eyes. "I just can't deal with boredom."

"Careful what you say. They might make the sharks come back for some 'excitement'," Bronn said, shaking his head. "Just chill."

Di raised a hand. She put up three fingers and made a questioning sort of gesture.

"Who's left aside us?" Coolio asked, getting a nod in response from his mute ally. "Boy from Eleven is still out there. So is that tiny cowgirl from Ten and the nerd from Five."

"Boy or girl?" Bronn asked.

"Boy, but who cares really?" Coolio paced around, bitter. "Going out as one is not working."

"Then let's split up?" Beauty suggested. "We'd cover more ground that way."

"Sure dudes… who goes with who?" Librae asked.

From there it soon turned into another argument, each member of the pack wanting to go with their District partner. This would have been fine if not for the fact that nobody wanted to stay at the cornucopia and do nothing. It seemed like a split in the pack was looking near, a fight even closer, until Lure spoke up.

"Ok, new plan, let's just not have a guard. That way we'll cover ground faster," the fisher boy moved to stuff some bottles of water into his pack. "With six of us together and three of them sailing solo is it really that likely they'd come back here?"

The other careers agreed one by one, seeing that logically Lure made a point and even if he was wrong they would always outnumber the Outliers regardless. Being the sort of career to not leave things to chance, however, Bronn ordered his allies to take all of the water bottles with them on the off-chance that an outlier came running back.

"You don't give the orders around here," Beauty muttered, crossing her arms.

"Who cares who gives them? The end result is the same; the outliers cannot fight without water," Bronn replied, shrugging indifferently. "C'mon Di, let's go."

The pair from Two wandered off into the desert, over a particularly large dune and out of sight. From their the Ones took their leave, moving off in the opposite direction. Before long the Fours were the only ones left at the cornucopia, Lure picking out a new harpoon from within the silver horn while Librae gathered up several knives into a duffel bag.

"So, like… where now?" Librae asked.

"Well, we can't follow the other careers. Eh… let's go this way," Lure suggested, leading Librae along south from the cornucopia. "As good a direction as any."

"But, what if we find another tribute?" Librae asked, putting a hand to her chin.

"We kill them, simple surfer," Lure replied, shaking his head. "You know how to do that, right?"

"Uh huh," Librae said, saluting.

The pair from Four trekked off into the dark desert, silent for the most part. Indeed, they shared no word for quite some time, save for Lure asking about Librae's surfboard.

"Oh, just a gift from a fan," was her answer.

"They didn't send you anything useful?" Lure replied, quirking up an eyebrow.

"Sure they did, they sent me my surfboard," Librae replied, letting out a dim giggle.

Lure rolled his eyes, but didn't push it. As far as he was concerned the simple surfer was his lowest threat in the entire arena, so what reason did he really have to complain?

* * *

Splitting up led to triumph and agonising defeat over the next three days for the three career duos. Beauty and Coolio travelled far and wide across the desert, eventually tracking down Rhett from Eleven. On the one hand their number advantage and superior equipment made it relatively easy to lay some painful cuts upon the massive field worker.

On the other hand Rhett was still much bigger than his better trained adversaries, one of whom still had a broken arm. All it took was kicking Beauty down and tearing Coolio's arm right from the rest of his body. The boy swiftly bled out after that, lacking any sort of tourniquet or medical supplies, while Rhett sped off with the arm as some kind of a makeshift club. Beauty scattered off pretty swiftly after that.

Bronn and Di worked well together, managing to fight off whatever mutt got sent their way – a total of four nasty snake mutts – and remain relatively unscathed, especially of any serious wounds. It was a simple enough matter for them to survive long enough to find Clicker from Five after a couple days of travel. The terrified nerd was too dehydrated to run far before the careers tore him apart.

"That was a fine work-out!" Bronn remarked, raising up his bloodsoaked sword in triumph.

Di nodded her agreement, letting out a guttural sort of growl to match the content look on her intimidating face. For the Twos, their only real issue was how their food supply was running out faster than they had expected.

As for Lure and Librae, the sailor and surfer were trekking across the desert aimlessly in search of their next target. Lure was getting annoyed by the lack of real action going on while Librae felt increasingly anxious around her increasingly bitter district partner.

"Dude, chill out," Librae said on the seventh day of the Games. "We're alive, so no worries yeah?"

"We're gonna get forgotten about by the audience if we don't kill anybody soon," Lure replied, huffing. "You saw the faces in the sky. Two deaths and we had no part in either. If we aren't relevant we'll lose… and you know what that means."

"Um… dying?" Librae guessed, making her voice notably slow in speed.

"Dying horribly," Lure corrected, shaking his head in unease. "I thought that things would be a bit more exciting than this. Didn't you?"

"I was reaped. Like, dude, you're the one that gambled your life by volunteering," Librae said, shrugging. "Why did you anyway?"

"Orphan aboard a noisy, foul ship. Seemed like the most direct way to the good life," Lure replied. "I'm still alive, so it's still worth the-URK!"

Lure dropped to his knees, wheezing from the arrow suddenly lodged into his lower gut. He breathlessly let out rapid curses, struggling to keep himself from falling. Librae had hardly any time to react as another arrow whizzed by, grazing her shoulder.

She was quick to spot Millie from Ten upon a dune, the tiny cowgirl loading another arrow into the crossbow she'd swiped from the bloodbath days prior. It was only a few seconds before she let the third arrow fly.

Librae only avoided the arrow piercing her heart because she used the surfboard as a shield, the board easily stopping the arrow from getting through. Her makeshift shield in one hand and her short sword in the other Librae made a charge at Millie.

The small girl fired off one more arrow and ran for her life when she saw it get blocked just as the first one did. She didn't get far before Librae caught right up to her and bought the bladed weapon down to her neck.

Librae returned to Lure, a haunted look in her eyes. The boy had by now managed to stagger himself up, though the pain hadn't lessened at all. He groaned out for a sponsor, almost sobbing in relief as a parachute fell from above with the supplies he direly needed.

"Than you," Lure croaked out, quickly looking over the instructions that came with the medical kit. "Nice job Librae. Not bad for a simple surfer."

"…" Librae had little to say, freaked out over killing somebody so young. "…Nothing to it. Just a matter of swinging the, um, thingy at what you want to die… yeah?"

"Pretty much," Lure agreed, working quickly to patch himself up. "Ok, just three careers and that beast from Eleven. They'll herd us together soon… 'til then, let's see if we can make another kill."

"Another?" Librae shuddered.

"…Is that an issue?" Lure asked.

"I mean… blood is icky," Librae gagged.

Lure grumbled again about Librae being simple, turning away to finish fixing himself up as best as he could. Librae shrugged to herself, moving to pace around the area until it was time to move on.

The approaching sandstorm was unmissable. Shouting a warning to Lure she charged to the top of a nearby dune, leaping into the air and landing on her board for the surf of her life. Lure watched, stunned, as Librae easily surfed the storm and quickly began to pull away from him.

As Librae's cheers of excitement, extra loud to hide her shattered nerves, faded away Lure was left to be thrown around by the sandstorm. Taking shelter amongst some scattered boulders at the base of a particularly large dune he grumbled, still in pain despite being patched up.

"Maybe she's tougher than I thought, simple or not," Lure said to himself as time passed by. "Anybody want to sponsor me a surfboard?"

Lure's request went unanswered, leaving the boy to sulk as he waited for the sandstorm to die down.

* * *

It was a while until the sandstorm died down, the winds howling until the close of day eight within the arena. In that time Di had been killed when the storm sent her smashing face first into a jagged, rocky cliff face. The remaining five tributes wandered aimlessly around the desert, miles apart as they hunted for each other.

The biggest target was, of course, on the backs of the Fours. Them being the only duo left, all bets were off if another tribute managed to find them.

Librae had taken shelter at the base of one of the sparse rocky cliffs, keeping herself safe by hiding within a shallow cave. The shelter offered was minimal, but was at least enough to keep the sand getting into her eyes any time the gamemakers put the sand storm back on once again.

Gone was her glee and goofiness. She now just looked so very tired and horribly uneasy over the kills she had made. The girl from Seven and the girl from Ten.

One fourteen and one twelve.

Librae had made what many tributes both career and outlier would call a very foolish choice… she had learnt and recalled their names before the Games began. Autumn and Millie. Having a name to put with each face she left bloody made it hurt all the more.

Librae busied herself with working on her surfboard, trying her hardest to not show any of her inner turmoil to the nation. As usual she was forcing herself to look like an idiot, wise enough to know letting too much weakness or clear sorrow show would only end up being dangerous.

She didn't want to end up as her mother did. Nor her father.

"Dudes, anybody got some water?" Librae asked eventually. "Kinda running low."

No parachute fell, much to the surfer's disappointment. At least, not at first. By the time the anthem played, no tributes shown in the sky, Librae had been forced to retreat to the top of the rocky cliff to evade the returning sand sharks. For an hour or two it seemed she had been officially trapped.

The parachute fell.

"Spikes?" Librae looked over the metal prongs curiously. "A sail?"

As if to answer her unspoken questions the wind picked up, a lightbulb setting off in Librae's head. She chuckled, relieved though grimfaced at what she would be required to do.

The sandstorm eventually returned, howling and roaring like a banshee as the wind picked up ferociously. By then however it no longer mattered.

With a sail secured to her surfboard and a trio of sharp spikes secured onto the front of it Librae was easily able to ride her way through the storm, laughing and cheering all the way.

Win or lose, this was the hands down most exciting surf she had ever taken part in.

* * *

The tributes ended up herded towards the golden horn of plenty at midday of the eleventh day, all worn out and desperate to go home. Bronn and Lure made it back first, both agreeing to at least wait until Rhett was dead before they turned their weapons upon each other.

When Beauty arrived and threw a spear their way, almost hitting Bronn, the plan was abandoned, and the battle began.

Librae surfed over from one direction right as Rhett ran up from the opposite direction. Within the next minute two major things of note were broadcast to the remnants of humanity across Panem.

Bronn had his head taken clean off as Rhett swung his recently sponsored sword in a wide arc, the cannon firing instantly.

Rhett was sent flying, blood billowing from his guts, as Librae's spiked surfboard rammed right into him. The cannon fired long before his corpse finally came to a stop in a truly broken heap.

Beauty and Lure stopped for a few moments, staring in shock as Librae tore around the clearing at an unmatched speed. The simple surfer gave them both a wink, forcing back her vomit over what she'd done to Rhett.

"Missed me?" she called out.

"Kinda, yes," Lure replied, readying himself as he gripped his harpoon tightly. "We need her off of that board Beauty."

"Indeed we do," agreed the girl from One. "Wish me luck."

One moment later Lure fell to the ground, mortally wounded from the knife Beauty had planted into his back. As the fisher boy lay dying on the ground Beauty made a charge towards Librae, clutching a scimitar at the ready.

"Alright simple surfer, let's end this!" Beauty yelled, lunging forth to make a strike at Librae.

The issue became quickly apparent; Librae was an expert upon her board and easily able to evade Beauty's attempts at striking her. All it would take for Librae to win was lining up a hit against the Beauty a single time. The bloodsoaked spikes were nothing short of lethal.

The gamemakers decided to make the fight a little more fair, weakening the wind and sending a few dirt clods flying through the air. Some of them hit Beauty, others hit Librae and several more hit right through the sail. In moments it had been rendered useless.

Librae tore away the sail and surfed on, trying to regain control of her surfboard. All the while Beauty closed in on her, deadly focused and ready to finish the job. Lure lay forgotten, almost dead and lacking any chance at all of making a comeback.

"Come back here, simple surfer!" Beauty shouted, gripping the scimitar hard enough for her knuckles to throb and turn white. "Face me like a woman!"

"Kinda busy right now, mind waiting a 'sec?" Librae replied, veering her surfboard towards the wide mouth of the cornucopia.

"Cornering yourself? Whoa, that's pretty dumb." Beauty couldn't help but laugh as she forced herself to thunder towards Librae. "It ends here!"

Beauty raced for the golden horn. Librae surfed right into the empty interior and, with years and years of surfing practise behind her, surfed her way right up the inside walls of the horn of plenty. Sparks were sent flying as the spikes ever so slightly grazed the metal walls as Librae rode around the inside of the cornucopia.

After three loops she'd managed to turn the surfboard around and, at great speed while looking totally unfazed by the sheer speed and whiplash of the right, sent herself flying right towards Beauty.

The girl from One didn't have chance to dodge or even scream before the spiked surfboard impaled her right through the chest. She collapsed as Librae soared through the air, tucking and rolling into three flips.

The landing was far from perfect with Librae breaking her left foot during the landing. But compared to how mangled Beauty's corpse looked she knew she'd gotten off lightly. Limping and fighting back tears, she approached Lure. His cannon hadn't fired yet, but he was almost gone.

"…Thought you were simple…" Lure muttered, wheezing.

"I might have told a bit of a white lie," Librae relied, panting and forcing a painful smile. "I know, I know, I'm such a bad girl right, dude?"

Lure managed to snicker, amused by what had happened.

"Coolest kill ever. Weaponizing a surfboard… how crazy is that…?" Lure trailed off, his eyes rolling back into his head.

As soon as the cannon faded away the trumpets rang out, the hovercraft descending to collect Librae a moment later. She collapsed into a seat within the passenger bay, accepting the drink one of the staff offered her. She gazed around the room, haunted by the empty seats once filled by the other twenty three tributes, four of whom she'd personally killed.

The unnerved look on her face only got worse when she gazed at her surfboard propped up against the seat beside her. The blood had started to flow down from the spikes and onto the main body of the board itself.

Some of the blood had stained over the messages written by her parents.

For the duration of the ride back to the Capitol Librae tried to get some sleep and forgot the nightmare she'd been through.

For the same duration of time her final kill was broadcast across Panem over and over, often in slow motion. It was listed as among the top ten most amazing kills in the eyes of the Capitol citizens.

Tuti remarked that Librae had made a good point over how not all of this was particularly funny or alright to watch. She didn't know that a certain trusted personal assistant had been passing by and overheard this.

* * *

In most Hunger Games the after-party attended by the Capitol's richest and finest was a source of memories for years to come for all who attended. The same was entirely true of the after-party that followed the Thirty Fifth Hunger Games.

Nobody ever forgot what happened.

The event started peacefully enough, Librae trying to enjoy herself and dance with the other victors in attendance at the party, mostly those from her own District. It was impossible to miss the frosty eyes from a few of those in attendance, but Librae was good at forcing a goofy smile and acting like she wasn't bothered by anything.

"Having fun?" Tuti asked, having gotten permission to dance alongside Librae for a while.

"Well, more fun than I was having when those sand sharks came swimming by," Librae replied. "Thanks Tuti, you really came through for me. If you hadn't gotten that surfboard… shit… yeah, I'd be dead."

"Just part of being a good escort. My job is to at all times encourage and support tributes in my care. If supporting them means ensuring a surfboard is sent in so be it," Tuti took Librae in for a hug. "You did great. You did Four proud and… you opened my eyes a bit."

"Your eyes?" Librae replied.

"I'll explain after the party," Tuti said, adjusting her fancy golden dress. "Anyway, I better be getting a drink. They're bringing out a new type of wine and I for one do not want to miss out. Seriously, even parties like this run out of new brands very quickly."

Time passed by and the drinks were handed out, though nobody was to drink until Orion made a toast to the success of the Hunger Games. The party attendants, both victors and Capitolites alike, sat and stood around as Orion stood up at his table of loyal, cruel ministers.

"I think we can agree that was a successful Hunger Games, can't we? No accidents, no trickery from the silly tributes and not a single slip-up from our Gamemaker staff. I think this Hunger Games was one of our best yet, a clear step-up from the technical errors that regrettably occurred over the past few years," Orion gazed around, as if _daring_ anybody to remind the room of anything that had happened. "Gore galore, magnificent battles and no retakes – only double takes from the Districts! Let's have this year set the standard for the rest of the decade, the rest of the century and then however long after that this great country shall live on for."

Isobel discreetly got up from her chair, disgusted by what the president was saying. Muttering to Shunt not to steal her drink the karate girl took her leave from the party to calm herself down. A peacekeeper followed, just in case.

Shunt eyed the drink Isobel had, a new sort of beer that precious few people had been lucky enough to get a sip out of. Chuckling to himself he swapped his glass with Isobel's own.

"A fine year it has been and I look forward to seeing you all here next year once we have our next Victor. Panem today, Panem tomorrow, Panem forever. Long live the wise, generous, benevolent Capitol," Orion said, raising up his glass in a toast.

Some reluctantly toasted, others very willingly but regardless most of those in the room drank down a gulp of their expensive drinks.

That's when the biggest turning point for Panem, outside of the stunt with the berries and everything thereafter, made its debut into reality.

Orion was silent one moment. A second later the tubby tyrant was howling and screaming in pure agony. He collapsed to the ground as did several of his minsters. All of them clutched at their throats as their flesh began to dissolve bit by bit, the greedy ministers treated to truly terrible demise.'

The crowd began to scream and shout in panic, the precious bubble the Capitolites lived in becoming threatened to burst. They abandoned their president as they stampeded for the exit in terror, several of them being trampled in the process.

Librae could only watch in horror as the minsters let out their final, painful croaks before they surrendered to the reaper. Some of the victors had fled in a panic, others stood in place as they stared at the dying or dead tyrants. Olga looked like her brain had broken, as if unable to process the fact that Orion had just died in front of her like he was nothing.

Except, he had not died yet. His drink had been different than the rest, as he wasn't dead yet. He'd merely started what would end up being a ten hour period of his innards being systematically broken down, dissolved and destroyed. Every whimper, scream and breathless cry for help went unheeded.

It wasn't long before Snow ordered a lockdown of the area and for all of the victors to be taken back to their room and put under guard for their own safety. Most went willing, some went with words of complaint.

Two did not go anywhere.

Librae sobbed, kneeling by the corpse of Tuti. Her dear escort lay dead, her eyes staring into nothingness and her throat partly melted away. She was soon yanked up by an unknown figure and taken away to the exit of the party room.

"Trust me, you'd rather not see any of this," said the man.

One glance back had Librae paling, the man being the very same gamemaker who she knew had been the one to destroy her once happy family.

"Fancy meeting you here," he said, his voice sicky sweet and incredibly smug.

Librae didn't fight as she was led away. She was too busy thinking. Thinking that it was time to stop playing the role of a fool and start putting her mind towards the things that mattered most. Rebellion and keeping safe those she loved.

That is, once she had calmed herself down from the nightmare that clearly hadn't ended when the last cannon boomed.

The other victor to not leave had been Shunt. It was hard to leave a room when one had died from a horribly poisoned glass of wine.

A glass that had been meant for Isobel, per the decision of Snow and Bronze. His body was taken away right as Isobel came back from her break just outside the mansion.

"Shunt? SHUNT! Shunt, no!" Isobel began to quickly breakdown at the sight of her dead friend and mentor from nearly twenty years ago. "No… not you…"

Isobel was soon dragged away to her room, unaware of just how lucky she had been. Panic and chaos reigned supreme for several hours, way into the night and the arrival of dawn. The chaos only ended shortly before Librae left the Capitol and returned to her home via the train.

Orion and several of his ministers were dead.

Shunt was the second victor to die, a tragedy that struck Isobel and Crimson to their very core. Many other victors were left incredibly shaken too.

* * *

Under the glow of the morning rays the following day Orion's personal assistant Coriolanus Snow addressed the nation.

"It's my sad duty to report that a great man has fallen. President Skarloey Orion protected and loved us all, treated much of the nation like we were his own children. Such a cowardly, unprovoked attack by traitors will not be going unpunished. Agents are working triple time to catch the culprit, or culprits, behind this massacre. Orion would want them dealt with, as would his ministers. The funeral will be coming next week," Snow took a moment to compose himself. "Regardless of who did this, the end result is the same. We currently lack a president."

Snow paused, letting the crowd's reactions play out until he raised a hand for silence.

"Normally, the role of president would go to a minister or another person of a similar rank. However, many such ministers are dead and other are undergoing questioning with several particularly vile offenses being unearthed," Snow paused again, sighing. "So, for the time being at least, the only choice that has been deemed practical is for myself to step up as Interim President of Panem. At least until we can sort things out. I promise you all this, I will do my very best to lead us into a new era. A golden age. Something to make Orion proud."

The Capitol crowd burst into a huge applause, all inspired by the bravery and courage of the young man before them. A scattered few victors applaud, though most who are still within the Capitol remain stony faced.

"It's a hard time we live in, especially with the tragic passing of Shunt Gaspar of the Twelfth Games… but we must move on towards bigger and better things," Snow looked right into the camera, firm. "It is almost certain that the culprit behind the massacre was a District citizen. You can remain assured that fair process and a due trial shall be used; if you've nothing to hide then you have nothing to fear."

Snow, with practised ease, hid the horrible smile he felt the urge to show.

"Until we can be sure of the guilt and innocence of those within the Districts… all wages are hereby halved, with curfew and security tightened. Furthermore, food imports are to be reduced to what is needed and without the luxury of excess, at least for now," Snow gave a salute, bathing in the sounds of despair and agony he was sure echoed throughout the Districts. "Panem today, Panem tomorrow, Panem forever."

Librae left the area wondering who had done the deed and what the future would be like for her and her fellow surfers. She hoped it would be better than it had been before.

Snow left the area wondering how it had been so pathetically easy to kill Orion's political cabinet and smirking over the perfect future awaiting him. The culprit would never be found, as he wasn't going to confess. He decided the Districts could simply make do with harsher rules and lesser rations forevermore.

Bronze left the area with a Capitol woman under each arm. He didn't really care who was in power, so long as he could continue his hedonistic lifestyle undisturbed. With his best mate at the help, he felt confident this would be easy to accomplish.

The next era of Panem had begun.

* * *

The victors from Twelve held a moment or two of silence for Librae and continued on their way further down the street. Before long they came to the next face upon the sidewalk. Imprinted into the concrete was a girl with an anxious, grim look upon her boney face with short, shaggy hair that went a little ways past her neck.

"Laurel Flamsteel," Peeta said, glancing at the name below the face. "She was in the Quell, at least for about a minute until…"

"Yeah…" Katniss trailed off, unable to say anything more.

* * *

There we go, Librae surfs her way to a win and now things are a little bit crazy in Panem. All that mania and Snow is stepping up as the president, and we all know where that takes canon… But anyway, Librae! I'm kind of a fan of the 'obstuficating stupidity' trope and though that it'd be fun to write out a girl who played the dumb card up. Wanting to go further than have her being dumb to not be a target, which isn't really as easily applicable in Hunger Games as it would be in the stories of other fandoms like TD or Survivor, I felt it'd be interesting to have her hide a lot of her more thoughtful and cunning side due to being smart having cost her parents everything they were. Think she turned out alright, or was she a bit of a wipe-out? In any case stay tuned for more, another canon victor looms near!

* * *

 **Stats**

 **District 1:** Peridot Gaudy (8th Games), Crystal McCree (14th Games), Bronze Marley (19th Games), Crown Martins (24th Games), Dollar Dettwieller (32nd Games)

 **District 2:** Baron Overwhill (4th Games), Runa Peace (7th Games), Olga Machete (10th Games), Rook Valiant (17th Games), Boulder Atherston (20th Games), Vercingetorix Carnby (25th Games), Dragon Batofel (27th Games)

 **District 3:** Honorius Perthshire (5th Games), Pi Orbit (22nd Games)

 **District 4:** Museida Selkirk (3rd Games), Mags Flanagan (11th Games), Tide Luther (23rd Games), Librae Ogilvy (35th Games)

 **District 5:** Shunt Gaspar (12th Games), Isobel Sparks (18th Games), Crimson Flanders (29th Games)

 **District 6:** Chassis Macalister (31st Games)

 **District 7:** Pliny Aransio (2nd Games), Fir Buzz (9th Games), Jack Tylos (21st Games), Snag Nakamura (34th Games)

 **District 8:** Woof Casino (16th Games), Paige Murphy (30th Games)

 **District 9:** Mizar Aldjoy (1st Games), Gwenith Rosebud (13th Games), Teff Withers (28th Games)

 **District 10:** Stallion March (26th Games)

 **District 11:** Bear Redfoot (15th Games), Seeder Howell (33rd Games)

 **District 12:** Duke Saint-Rose (6th Games)


	37. Laurel Flamsteel

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Hunger Games. They belong to Suzanne Collins.

 **Note:** Back for more? Well fancy that, so am I! If you've read my story Howling Hate, the tale of the D9F from the 74th Games, you'll recognise Laurel as Sickle's mentor. What may have happened to that woman decades prior to the canon Quarter Quell? Let me be the first to answer that mystery… ok, fine, hardly the first given the amount of wonderful every-victor stories, but I'll answer it regardless. Haha, enjoy!

* * *

Peeta and Katniss looked down at Laurel's imprinted face, the knowledge that she was no longer among the living being heavy upon their hearts.

"When the Quell happened I never wanted to know too much or get attached to her. It was just too painful," Katniss said, looking off to the side. "But now I wish I had. I feel… I don't know."

"I think I know what you mean," Peeta replied, wringing his hands. "They say Laurel was one of the luckiest victors overall. Perhaps not in the same way Chassis, Snag or even Spud were. More just a case of all the circumstances lining up when it mattered most."

"So, kind of like us in a way?" Katniss asked.

"I guess you're right," Peeta agreed, giving a soft nod of his head. "I'm not sure what Laurel went through, but her kill count speaks for itself. It must have been brutal."

* * *

 **36th Annual Hunger Games**

 **Name:** Laurel Flamsteel

 **Gender:** Female

 **District:** 9

 **Age:** 16

 **Kills:** 7

* * *

Orion's horrific death was met with weeping within the Capitol, many a candle lit for their dear leader who died too young.

In the Districts there were more than just a few parties thrown and many cheers were yelled in celebration of the horrid tyrant's demise. Few outside the Career Districts felt anything but contempt for the man and approval for whoever had gotten him sent into the reaper's clutches.

Of course, the new president was not what anybody could call better. In fact, some were starting to think he may have been even worse. True to his word curfew and security was stricter, food supplies were lowered, and it'd be this way until Orion's killer was caught.

Nobody knew Snow had done the deed himself and had no intention of treating the Districts as anything aside a work force of slaves.

What they did know, however, was that they were hungry.

 _So hungry_.

Laurel Flamsteel was one of these starving citizens. The girl was emaciated from hunger, having always been poor and homeless. Snow's cuts to resources only made it even harder to find any food; there weren't even pieces of bread in the trash cans anymore.

Beggars were shot on sight at this point so pleading with people for food was pointless, not that many people could spare anything in the first place, whether it was an apple or just a single cap to buy a grape with.

Laurel's only hope was drinking water from rivers and munching on weeds, actions that more often than not made her ill. She'd vomited more times from the age of ten to twelve than most people did in their entire teen years. But between starvation and sickness, she was the sort to risk the latter.

Hunger was the enemy.

The winter after Orion's death and the victory of the surfer girl from District Four was perhaps the worst time of her young life. Starvation, the freezing cold and peacekeepers shooting anybody who dared come close to the grain crops out of desperation – even children as young as six – had Laurel close to the point of giving up.

"Why… why do they… why do they hate us…" she sobbed one cold night, staggering her way down a street.

It wasn't much of a surprise that Laurel ended up collapsing from the combination of hunger and the unforgiving cold. Indeed, it was inevitable.

The real surprise was that Mizar Aldjoy had been taking a late night walk through the snowfall to clear it his head, having heard the news that an attempt on Isobel's life had come close to succeeding.

He ended up walking right to where Laurel lay dying outside of District Nine's Victor Village. One quick check that the poor, tiny girl was still alive was all it took for Mizar to make the snap decision to help.

"Let's get you inside where it's warm," Mizar said to the unconscious girl, as warm as the weather was cold. "Far worse than that old snow meadow out here."

With a shudder at the memories of the meadow he'd been the sole survivor of almost thirty six years ago Mizar carried Laurel towards his house, hoping he wasn't too late to save her.

He wasn't.

* * *

Laurel awoke the next morning, stunned to find that she wasn't dead. Stranger still was the fact she was warm for the first time in so long. Her heart sped up when she saw she was in a fancy bedroom of some sort.

"Is this paradise?" Laurel whispered, unsure of what else to say.

Laurel gulped as footsteps made their way towards her door, their owner and their intent a complete mystery to Laurel. She was close to making the snap decision of jumping through the window when the door opened.

Seeing the first ever victor of the Hunger Games holding a tray of freshly baked bread and wearing an apron with the words 'kiss the cook' on it was perhaps the last thing she'd expected to see.

"How are you feeling?" Mizar asked as he moved closer to Laurel, setting the tray down on her bedside table.

Laurel had about one thousand things that she wanted to say. So, naturally, she somehow went with saying the most random thought of the bunch.

"What's with the apron?"

Mizar groaned, muttering something about Maizie getting it for him as a joke, before pulling up a chair to talk to Laurel.

"How are you feeling?" Mizar repeated. "I found you outside the Victor Village halfway frozen to death."

"Well, I can't really feel much of anything. I guess the cold must have made me all numb," Laurel shuddered weakly. "Actually, I can feel one thing. Starving."

Mizar pressed the tray of bread into Laurel's hands.

"Eat. You need it, badly," Mizar said, seriously. "Lots of people are suffering this winter; I'm not letting more people die on my watch."

Laurel didn't so much eat the bread as practically inhale it. If Mizar was bothered by her savage eating etiquette he didn't show it, instead getting up to look out the window at the snowy landscape outside of his house.

"This is the worst winter is years. People have been freezing all across Nine and beyond. No food, no shelter… it's been a nightmare," Mizar said, a hand over his face. "I don't have enough time to be able to help everybody at once. I can't be in a couple hundred places at the same time."

"What do you mean?" Laurel asked.

"It's my yearly tradition," Mizar replied. "I call it 'stopping people dying in the cold'. I go around and give food, money and blankets to the poor. I was on my way back from a homeless shelter last night, actually."

Mizar sighed as he returned to his seat.

"Not that it'll be around much longer. Snow's closing them all down across the District," Mizar let out a long suffering sigh. "I thought nobody could be worse than Orion… but, I've been wrong before. I once thought I'd never be reaped and we all saw how that went."

"You won," Laurel said, finishing the bread.

Mizar shuddered, memories of the bloodbath and of his duel in the rain against Kai dancing around in his mind.

"At a great cost," Mizar said after a moment. "Point is that Snow's been really keeping an iron hold on the Districts. Less food, less money, less of everything aside from suffering until Orion's killer is caught."

"Will they ever be found?" Laurel asked, weakly.

"Hell if I know," Mizar replied. "Isobel wants them caught because, if Shunt hadn't taken her drink, she'd be the one who died. It's been a pretty bad time in Five."

Mizar noticed Laurel's vicious look.

"Honorius worked out a way for us to communicate," Mizar said, promptly. "I'm getting ahead of myself. It's gonna be a horrible winter, so… feel free to stay for as long as you want until you feel like you can survive out there."

"Thank you," Laurel whispered, grateful to the point of almost sobbing.

It was the worst winter that Nine would see for many years. Even with Mizar doing his very best to help the poor and homeless of the District, and with Gwenith and Teff helping out as well, the fact was that due to Nine being quite a large District many of the poor citizens were lost in the cold long before spring arrived.

But Mizar's intervention had spared Laurel. She stayed alive and recovered some of her strength as the winter passed by, living to see events such as Snow moving from interim president to the official president, public whippings and hangings of those who so much as slightly complained about the lack of food and, of course, Librae's victory tour where the surfer looked rather messed up from what she'd witnessed in the after-Games party.

Laurel eventually had to leave when the Peacekeepers heard of a 'vagrant' living without permission in Mizar's home and descended with intent to execute the girl. Mizar managed to buy her enough time to make a run for it, saving her once again, but it was back to the streets with Laurel now that the Peacekeepers were doing their best to assure that the poor would receive absolutely zero aid.

But little did Laurel know, this was not the last time she and the kind first victor would meet.

They'd cross paths again during the summer when Laurel was reaped for the Thirty Sixth Hunger Games.

* * *

Laurel sat at the dining table in the meal carriage of the tribute train, gorging down an entire roast turkey. The escort looked green and not just because of the fact his skin was genetically altered, the three previous victors from Nine were torn between nonchalant and slightly uneasy while the male tribute, a tiny twelve year old boy, sobbed with his face slumped into a bowl of soup.

Just a typical dinner, naturally.

Laurel cared nothing for table manners, what with having been dealing with hunger ever since the earliest days of spring. If she was gonna die she'd not die of starvation.

The only reason she stopped eating, long after dinner had been deemed as over, was because Mizar sat down next to her and snapped his fingers for attention.

"So, we meet again," Mizar said, letting out one truly humourless chuckle. "So, how have you been?"

"Hungry," was Laurel's simple response. "Pass the mustard?"

Mizar did so, watching as Laurel squirted a bunch of the stuff over a large lamb steak. He had to briefly glance away as she devoured it, instead looking to where Gwenith and Teff were attempting to talk to the male tribute, Omi: the poor boy was inconsolable, reaping day having been his twelfth birthday.

It had been quickly agreed that the women would work together to help the objectively weaker tribute and Mizar would mentor the tribute he'd already met, and saved, the previous winter. It only made sense.

"Keep eating if you'd like. Putting on weight before the Games is a good plan. You never know how long you may be in the arena. Fir lasted almost thirty days and without sponsors she'd have starved," Mizar shuddered at the very thought of this. "Nobody is sure what to expect with this new president and what he wants from the Gamemakers, so… best be ready for anything."

Laurel nodded, downing a whole glass of milk.

"So, how do I survive this?" she asked, uneasy.

"First of all, you make a solid impression in the parade," Mizar replied. "After that we'll see what training stations you'd be most suited for. But to repeat my yearly advice, don't make yourself a target to any of the career tributes. You anger one, you anger them all."

Mizar shuddered, thinking back to various years where tributes from Nine were mercilessly, painfully murdered by the career packs.

"Like I said, do well at the parade first and foremost."

* * *

"I can't believe you did that," Mizar said not long after the parade as he and the rest of the Nine team entered their floor of the tribute building.

"I was hungry," Laurel said, defensively.

This year the tributes from Nine had both been dressed up as rather unflattering baguettes. This in itself was one thing – a rather humiliating thing to be exact – but as wise philosopher Borat Sagdiyev once said, if life gives you baguettes then make a meal out of them.

So, Laurel did. By the end of the parade her edible costume was missing several chunks, her face was covered in breadcrumbs and her stylist was screaming about his work being ruined by a savage ape.

Some other stylists had a rare moment of brainpower and told the man that making a fully edible costume was bound to come with risks.

In any case District Nine was forgettable in the parade as they were in almost every single year. The costume eating was remembered, but only for the novelty of it and not Laurel herself. It was apparent that training and a good score was going to be her main hope of securing some sponsor support.

But when asked what skills she had and was planning to focus on… her response did not fill Mizar with much hope.

"A sort of poison immunity due to living off of poisonous plants and berries in past winters and maybe strangling people."

* * *

Training started with a bang from the careers and a whimper from most of the outliers. The four careers, joined by a particularly vicious criminal boy from Four who volunteered to escape a looming death by hanging, were out for blood from the word go. They hogged the weapon stations and made the training centre their kingdom by lunchtime. Few were brave enough to get anywhere close to them.

Indeed, only Satyr from Seven was unbothered by their presence around him and that wasn't due to bravery. It was due to wanting to die after his family had perished during the horrible winter.

Laurel joined the bulk of the outliers in keeping away from the career pack and learning what she could from the training stations off to the side. Poison identification, patching up wounds, staff usage and even cooking soup. Not the most impressive array of skills, least of all when put next to the so-called 'fiendish five' as Gwenith had taken to calling the careers.

"I'm just saying, they act like fiends is all…" she had mumbled when pressed on the odd choice of a name.

The careers made sure to spare time for each of the outliers, one by one reducing them to tears or otherwise just a state of mortal terror. They were dedicated to their job of being the most dangerous killers in the Games.

They only skipped over Satyr as, really, what use was there threatened to kill somebody who desired it? It was a waste of time that'd be better spent swinging swords and smashing maces onto dummies.

It was shortly before lunch on the third day of training when the pack descended onto Laurel.

"Gee, she's a skinny one," the buff boy from One remarked. "Hungry for food? Starving for victory? Drooling for some kind of a hope or chance, little girl?"

"I think she's hungry for my mace on her skull," the girl from One added, twirling the weapon around and around by the handle in one of her hands.

Historically outliers both victorious and dead had spoken back against the career pack when they tried to intimidate them. Laurel was not among these tributes.

Indeed, the half-starved orphan was quick to run away to the other side of the training centre and hide herself in one of the artificial bushes. The sound of the careers laughing was a ghastly sound, second only to the screams of agony that filled the cornucopia bloodbath year after year.

Laurel eventually dared to come out when the tributes were called for lunch, only for the boy from Four to jump her from out of nowhere. One look into his twisted, malicious eyes almost made Laurel piss herself.

"If I find you in that arena you're gonna be chum," he hissed.

The boy, Sinbad, shoved Laurel down and went on his way. The sight of the Peacekeepers snickering and the other careers applauding their recruit filled Laurel with two main emotions.

The first, of course, was fear. Who wouldn't be scared of those brutes in her situation?

The second was _**hatred**_. Cruel, spoiled teenagers who had a warm home, plenty to eat – or in Sinbad's case at least were not halfway starved to death – and who enjoyed causing pain to other people.

She wanted them dead.

But, how was a scrawny wisp of a girl to do that?

* * *

Time flew by all too soon. The interviews were a morbid mixture of the careers making all kinds of death threats and most outliers crying for their families – or, in Satyr's case, asking if they could skip him so he could eat more donuts – while the Capitol crowd greedily ate it all up.

Having only scored a five and with odds set at forty to one it was unlikely for Laurel to ever see a place other than the arena in what remained of her life.

Mizar's advice had been to run off into the thickest flora visible from her launch pedestal and work things out from there. He was sure he could wrangle her a sponsor or two; being the first victor came with its own sort of sway.

All Laurel could think of when she was launched into the arena and took stock of the cornucopia and the surrounding terrain was how scared she was of starving to death. She'd already come so close before.

Her eyes were soaked with tears before the countdown had even reached fifty.

This year the Gamemakers had chosen to toss the tributes into a tropical island, one similar at a brief glance to the one all the way back in the Third Games. Lovely waves, clear sky, warm sunshine and a massive crab shell much like the one Museida had made use of over thirty years ago. It looked like a beautiful holiday destination.

Or, it would have if not for the slight problem of how the island was absolutely covered with poisonous plants. It was obvious to almost everybody that something was very wrong with the plants that covered the surface of the island. Perhaps it was the very unnatural colours some of them had and the odour of death that lightly filled the air.

Maybe it was how bird mutts flew all around the trees of the island forest and dropped dead when they made contact with some of the funky looking flowers growing here and there.

Even the career pack seemed a little wary after seeing this.

Laurel, however, was mainly concerned with living long enough for the poison to even factor into her continued existence. She was the sort who would pick poison over death.

Her eyes landed upon a forest green duffel bag about fifteen meters away from her pedestal. It looked like pure salvation to the desperate teenager.

The gong rang and they were off.

By the time Laurel had managed to reach the duffel bag in her desperate sprint Sinbad had lunged for the nearest tribute to himself – the tiny girl from Twelve – and snapped her neck. It had only been five seconds after that when Karmallia from Two easily grabbed Omi and, ignoring his sobbing and begging, slit his throat.

It was at this time, right as Satyr threw himself in the way of the girl from One's mace to spare his District partner, that Laurel was knocked over by the girl from Eight making a charge at her. The two terrified, malnourished teens grappled over the duffel bag, blind and deaf to all the carnage going on around them in every direction.

Laurel gained advantage upon loosening her hold on the duffel bag. The girl from Eight fell backwards to the ground from the force she'd been pulling with and from there it was hauntingly easy for Laurel to repeatedly punch her in the neck until she stopped twitching.

It was then that the boy from Eight ran up, knife in hand, and managed to stab Laurel in her side. The younger boy didn't have the strength to make a lethal wound nor the courage to keep fighting after the initial attack, but it didn't make it any less painful for Laurel to experience.

Laurel tore off into the overgrowth of the island, fighting the urge to cry and scream as blood trickled down her hip. After several near misses with lethally poisonous flowers Laurel had finally managed to escape into the depths of the poisonous island's overgrowth.

Ten tributes had not been quite so lucky. Eleven if one were to count the boy from six who was dragging himself away into the bushes, blood pouring down his back.

The pack were quick to start cheering after the dust settled, all of them having enjoyed the vicious combat to the fullest. After the cannons fired they started to realise that their celebrating was premature.

The cornucopia had little in the way of food this year. Some of it had been taken by the outliers, a few bits and pieces had been destroyed during the bloodbath and what remained wouldn't be able to feed a pack of five eighteen year olds.

"Ok, what do we do guys?" Karmalli asked.

Her district partner shrugged, having no idea how to do anything that wasn't killing people.

"Uh… kill people?" he suggested.

"Drogg, don't be stupid," Karmalli muttered.

"I think he has the right idea, actually," Sinbad said, arming himself with a pair of nasty, barbed harpoons. "If we can wipe out the outliers fast then a lack of food doesn't matter."

"But there are still nine outliers around the island," the girl from One had said.

A cannon boomed as the boy from Six finally bled out not even a hundred meters away from where the pack were standing.

"Eight people. C'mon, let's get our stuff together and get moving," Sinbad said, chuckling.

The pack were off on the hunt in less than an hour, eager to spill more blood. They left no guard, feeling that there was little of real value left in the cornucopia to begin with. Just a few lesser quality weapons and some crackers here and there.

Not long after they had left the boy from Ten climbed out from a crate he'd been hiding inside. He grabbed what little food remained and the sole water bottle left behind before he, too, ran away. His theft wouldn't go without causing some serious effects in the coming days…

While the outliers were terrified, the careers eager and eleven tributes more dead than the pre-Panem land of Italy Laurel felt a different emotion entirely.

Despair.

Her duffel bag had been worthless. Like several others, it had only been packed with paper and sticks to give the illusion that it had anything useful within it. With only the clothes on her back and a stab wound Laurel wept as she aimlessly wandered through the poisonous terrain of the island.

* * *

By the time day three arrived ten tributes were still alive. The careers had torn apart the girl from Three, Thimble from Eight had gotten lucky by killing the boy from eleven in his sleep and Laurel had taken down the boy from Twelve in a duel fuelled by starvation and adrenaline fuelled chaos.

Almost everybody was starving. Even the careers were feeling the pain of hunger; their food was running out fast, sponsors were much more expensive than the norm and the cornucopia was empty of anything that could be eaten.

Only Laurel was anywhere close to being well fed and it came at the cost of being sick and woozy all the time. Much like in her homeless upbringing in Nine she'd been living off of poisonous berries, the sort she'd developed a sort of immunity to. They made her sick, but they'd not do any worse than make her vomit every now and then.

It was by a berry bush of such poisonous delicacies that the career pack found her at midday. Initially it seemed as though Laurel was done for, lacking any weapons and being injured while the career pack were well armed and only bothered by hunger. But after punching Laurel around for a bit and really drawing out the fear the pack presented Laurel with an offer.

One that she couldn't refuse.

"We saw you at the poison identification training station. Same with edible plants and bugs," the boy from One said. "Help us figure out what stuff growing around here is safe to eat."

"Cook it for us too," Karmalli added.

"If you don't, you die," Sinbad added, brandishing his harpoons. "Fish aren't the only things I know how to gut, just saying."

Laurel was quick to agree to the 'deal' after Sinbad's threat. A moment later she was knocked out by a solid punch to the back of her head. The careers didn't want her getting any wise ideas after all or having a chance to make a run for it.

Laurel was dragged towards the Cornucopia for several hours after that, getting cut and bumped by thorns and rocks along the way. The noise made it easy for the remaining outliers to evade the pack, not that the careers minded.

They were solely focused on satisfying their hunger above all else. Something they were sure that Laurel would be able to help them with.

And if not, it'd be another easy kill and a step closer to victory.

* * *

Laurel regained consciousness just as the sun was setting. By then she had been tied up and her wounds were searing with pain. Numerous berries and flowers had been set down in front of her with the five careers standing back, silently polishing their weapons.

"Oh, good, you're awake," Karmalli noted. "Get to work."

"What?" Laurel said, barely half conscious.

"Tell us what's safe to eat," Sinbad added, scowling. "We're hungry. Get cracking."

The girl from One threw a knife in Laurel's direction, missing by an inch and even then only because she'd missed on purpose. Laurel weakly squirmed around in her bindings as she tried to reach the piles of poisonous berries. Drogg cut her loose, but kept a close guard over her as she started to look over the scavenged berries.

"Don't get any bright ideas," he said, coldly. "You're gonna be tasting it first."

Laurel wept as she sorted through the poisonous plants in search of something that would be safe to eat. But amongst the cluster of poisonous flora was only poison and more poison. Not even a single, harmless apple existed within the arena.

But she wasn't about to admit this, not when doing so would be her death warrant. In the sea of Laurel's desperation, fear and panic swam a whale of a plan. Nothing was outright safe to eat, but if she were to taste test everything… who else but her was the one with the semi-immunity to poison built up after years?

"These three types are safe," Laurel said, gesturing to a decent selection of berries. "Don't touch the rest. Don't even breath too near them."

The Ones handled disposal work with the worst of the poisonous berries. The Twos both watched over Laurel as she worked to prepare the soup and Sinbad patrolled around the edges of the clearing on the off chance an outlier was hiding in wait for them to leave the supplies ripe for the picking.

Before long Laurel had the soup ready and poured out into six metal bowls. With a sword pressed to her back Laurel did as she was demanded and gulped down the contents. It tasted beastly and had Laurel gagging for a few moments, but her years of suffering without food or comfort in Nine served her well indeed.

The poison was entirely ineffective, just as Laurel has expected. Just the odd queasy burp, not enough to rouse instant suspicion from the careers. After five minutes passed by without Laurel dropping dead the pack gulped down their own bowls, gagging much like how Laurel did.

"Tastes worse than raw fish," Sinbad muttered, wiping his lips.

"At least it's food," Karmalli stated. "C'mon, we're fed so let's go hunting. We've wasted enough time as it is."

"We bringing this one?" the girl from One asked, looking at Laurel in distaste.

"No, she's just get in the way," Karmalli said, firm. "Besides, if she dies out there then so does our way of getting food. Let's just leave her here."

"And risk her escaping?" the boy from One muttered, incredulous.

"I'm on it," Sinbad said, rolling his eyes.

Not even ten minutes later the careers had left the cornucopia and returned to the overgrown wilderness of the island arena in search of their prey. Laurel, meanwhile, was left hogtied with a rope with Drogg left to watch over her.

The hours passed by slow and miserably, each second snailing by. No amount of struggling against her binds did anything for Laurel aside making her skin sore and making Drogg growl.

It was, simply put, hell.

But Laurel still had one advantage and that was how the careers were none the wiser to the fact she'd started poisoning them. Over the next few days the effects would really start to show, but so long as she kept drinking the soup as well… how would they ever know?

Drogg certainly showed no signs of suspicion, even when he had to vomit in the bushes on four separate occasions.

* * *

Several days passed like this. Laurel would make the careers a soup out of the poisons they gathered, she'd be forced to taste it first and then the careers would consume large helpings of the sickly soup before heading off to hunt for the remaining outliers. The hunting was lacking much success, the careers finding only one tribute in a total of four days, not that Laurel minded.

Why would Laurel mind if it meant more time for the poison to take effect?

Of course, being the prisoner of the pack was by no means anything beside a horrific experience. Laurel was tied up for long hours, given only the bare minimum of water, took the brunt of the pack's abusive words and tempers after a failed hunt… as stated, it was hell.

Laurel didn't give in. Not when the pack had been getting sicker and sicker, lacking Laurel's built up resistance. They were getting slower, puking a lot, slurring their words and best of all, to Laurel at least, were blaming it on the arena itself.

They had no idea that their prisoner was slowly killing them.

* * *

By the time the eleventh day rolled by the careers had became erratic, incredibly nauseous and had slept poorly. They almost looked like zombies as they staggered around on their hunting trips.

Zombies that could still kill, mind you. They were, after all, well-armed and bigger than the remaining outliers.

As it happened, the only outliers who were still alive were the girl from Eleven and Laurel herself. Time was running out for her before the careers would deem her as no longer needed.

With a slit throat looming Laurel decided to make her move shortly before the anthem of the eleventh day. By then the careers would be at their most angry and restless from their lack of kills.

Sure enough the pack were not only seriously sick, but seriously pissed off when they returned to the cornucopia without anymore kills to their names. The boy from One, left as the guard, could only scoff in disgust.

"We'll head out again in a few hours, see if we can get the last one while she sleeps," Sinbad muttered. "Nine, get cooking."

"Do it! Now!" Karmalli shouted, having long since lost any remaining threads of her patience several days ago.

Laurel got to work as she mixed up the soup under the watch of the furious, sick, starving career pack. It was hard to ignore the way the Ones were muttering to each other about killing their slave if they couldn't find the other tribute by sunrise.

The soup was soon ready and, unknown to the careers with their lack of any survival skills, it was a true meal to die for. As always Laurel was made to try it first.

This was a dish she was not immune to. One swallow would kill her, but therein was her plan. Pretend to take a mouthful while in actuality not sampling a drop.

Just as Laurel predicated, the half-crazed pack were nowhere close to their normal level of attention and keen observation. They simply shrugged to themselves over the meal being safe, if perhaps disgusting.

It was their last mistake they'd ever make. The Ones and Twos gulped down their meal and instantly began to choke, froth at the mouth and cry out as they began to die of poison and suffocation due to the swelling in their throats. They slumped over, helpless as Laurel and Sinbad watched them die.

Sinbad, spared due to having paused to add a little pepper to his soup, laughed and openly applauded Laurel. He even doubled over, hysterical.

"That was brilliant!" the convict laughed and laughed. "Not bad Nine, not bad at all."

Sinbad shakily reached for his harpoon.

"Too bad I didn't taste any," he continued, kicking his untouched soup over. "Thanks though. I was wondering how I was gonna dispose of this lot once you and the other girl bit it. They'd kill the odd man out first."

"You're not gonna win," Laurel said, swiping up the knife from Drogg's still twitching hand.

"Why's that?" Sinbad asked, coughing weakly as he laughed.

"I've been poisoning you lot for days. Every meal was poisoned," Laurel narrowed her eyes, starting to circle Sinbad. "I've been starving all my life. I had to eat that kind of shit to survive. I'm immune!"

For a moment a flicker of genuine fear appeared in Sinbad's eyes, but it passed quickly as the convict made a grand charge at Laurel with his harpoon stuck out.

Laurel, though weak from being a prisoner for so long, still wasn't affected in the same way that Sinbad was. The poison made it hard for him to keep on the attack for more than a few seconds without vomiting. The moment he paused to vomit was the moment Laurel stabbed him right in the middle of his chest.

The boy from Four fell to the ground dead, something close to respect in his eyes for the few seconds prior to all life fading from them.

The five cannons fired out one after another until the night became silent once again. Panting hard and twitching every few seconds from her own feelings of trauma, Laurel staggered her way to the cornucopia and sat down against the side of it.

She sat perfectly still for the rest of the night, not reacting at all when the gamemakers decided to put on some strong wind for some atmosphere.

She didn't react when they turned on the rain either. She was like a statue as she stared into space at seemingly nothing.

She only reacted when, shortly before dawn arrived, a cannon fired. The girl from Eleven, immobile from an infected wound for the past day and a half, finally succumbed to her injury.

As the trumpets sounded and the hovercraft descended to take home the nation's newest victor Laurel hardly said anything. She didn't even cheer.

She just silently let tears flow down her sallow, bony cheeks as the memories of the fresh trauma consumed her mind.

* * *

Laurel's victory, at the time, was seen as a bit of a let-down by the Capitol citizens. It wasn't so much that they did not like the survivor from Nine and more that her win did not feel flashy enough. Seven kills with four from poison and the other three from forgettable fights didn't give Laurel the same status as somebody like Vercingerorix had… not that she cared.

Indeed, Laurel never spoke of the Games unless forced to. She was content to just stay in her new house, spend time with her neighbour and parental figure Mizar and eat all the food she could ever want. Starvation would never trouble her again.

Perhaps District Nine's fourth win was a bit of a let-down at the time, especially due to the lack of any finale between her and the fallen girl from Eleven, but her win would have plenty of long-term effects over the years. Some she knew of, some she never did.

The talk of Nine offering up such a weak finale inspired a boy of Laurel's District several years later to give the nation the hands down most flashy, fancy and amazing finale they'd ever seen. All with the aid of a bit of stage magic.

Due to how the career pack were so easily poisoned the trainers at the academies added a new topic to the training regimen. Pressing upon the cadets how important it was to never ever accept food from an outlier.

Laurel's idea of poisoning the careers and drinking the same poison to avoid any sort of suspicion gave President Snow the inspiration he needed to ensure his enemies were killed and he could retain power over the remnants of humanity for many years to come.

Her poisoning of her enemies to gradually weaken them came in very useful for a crazy women from Ten many years later who Laurel had told everything she knew about poisons. This woman, before her death, she used a spiked cleat covered in a smuggled poison to strike Brutus.

The exact strike that led to him being weak enough for Peeta to stand a chance at beating and for the second rebellion to be able to ignite a few days later.

Laurel may have ended up dead on the rocky island of the cornucopia during the Third Quell's first five minutes, but the effects of her actions lived on and on and on…

* * *

"May she rest in peace," Peeta said.

The pair from Twelve held a few moments of silence for Laurel before they walked further down the street. Hardly ten paces later they came to the face of a smart looking short haired boy imprinted into the sidewalk. From his firm, thoughtful gaze to his smart glasses he had a look of pure inquisitive genius to him.

"Beetee," Katniss read, a ghost of a smile on her face. "Finally, somebody that we know is alive and well. Or at least as well as can be expected."

"He was vital to the rebellion. Without him, could we have ever stood a chance?" Peeta asked, frowning slightly.

"I don't want to think about it," Katniss replied. "I'm just glad the Capitol fell and the Games are gone forever."

* * *

So, how was that? Poisoning people has been an effective tactic in past Games, most notably seen with Mags of course, but gradual poisoning over several days whilst being a tied up prisoner? I'd say that Laurel certainly took it a step further. Hope I did this fairly forgotten canon victor some justice, guys. ^_^ And now, we come to a fan favourite victor and our first confirmed survivor – I mean, aside Katniss and Peeta obviously, haha – Beetee Latier! Stay tuned for more!

* * *

 **Stats**

 **District 1:** Peridot Gaudy (8th Games), Crystal McCree (14th Games), Bronze Marley (19th Games), Crown Martins (24th Games), Dollar Dettwieller (32nd Games)

 **District 2:** Baron Overwhill (4th Games), Runa Peace (7th Games), Olga Machete (10th Games), Rook Valiant (17th Games), Boulder Atherston (20th Games), Vercingetorix Carnby (25th Games), Dragon Batofel (27th Games)

 **District 3:** Honorius Perthshire (5th Games), Pi Orbit (22nd Games)

 **District 4:** Museida Selkirk (3rd Games), Mags Flanagan (11th Games), Tide Luther (23rd Games), Librae Ogilvy (35th Games)

 **District 5:** Shunt Gaspar (12th Games), Isobel Sparks (18th Games), Crimson Flanders (29th Games)

 **District 6:** Chassis Macalister (31st Games)

 **District 7:** Pliny Aransio (2nd Games), Fir Buzz (9th Games), Jack Tylos (21st Games), Snag Nakamura (34th Games)

 **District 8:** Woof Casino (16th Games), Paige Murphy (30th Games)

 **District 9:** Mizar Aldjoy (1st Games), Gwenith Rosebud (13th Games), Teff Withers (28th Games), Laurel Flamsteel (36th Games)

 **District 10:** Stallion March (26th Games)

 **District 11:** Bear Redfoot (15th Games), Seeder Howell (33rd Games)

 **District 12:** Duke Saint-Rose (6th Games)


	38. Beetee Latier

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Hunger Games. They belong to Suzanne Collins.

 **Note:** And so we reach Beetee, halfway in the line-up of Victors. I had fun writing this one, both adding to the canon facts we know about Beetee's Games and using a new chapter format. I think the final result is pretty good overall, but what do you guys think? Let me know if you get the time. Nothing else to say, so let's begin~!

* * *

"We've known Beetee for a while now, but have we ever really asked about his Games? Even once?" Katniss asked.

Peeta shook his head.

"I always thought it'd be pretty insensitive. We don't like talking about our Games… why make another Victor go into detail about their own?" Peeta replied. "I guess we can ask some things later today, but…"

"I guess we'll just judge for ourselves who wants to talk… and if we should even say anything," Katniss concluded.

* * *

 **37** **th** **Annual Hunger Games**

 **Name:** Beetee Latier

 **Gender:** Male

 **District:** 3

 **Age:** 15

 **Kills:** 6

* * *

Once upon a dystopia there were twelve gamblers, born and bred. They'd bet on anything you could imagine; horse races, card games, story arc resolutions in TV shows and even who could fit more than six bean buns in their mouth at once.

But there was one thing above all others that the gamblers loved to bet on and that thing was, of course, the Hunger Games. They'd bet on the victor, on the first District to be eliminated, the order of deaths, who would kill who and which tribute would be the first to cry.

As you can imagine they didn't see the tributes as real people, moreso just characters on TV.

As they did every year for the past ten years the gamblers entered a fancy viewing room of the local casino – The Mendez' Marigold – and prepared to watch the reaping. When it came to betting on the Games, and on the lives of innocent children, many normal gamblers would watch the repeating with careful, perceptive eyes to pick out the best prospects of the batch.

But these gamblers were different. They each had a longstanding loyalty to one particular District who they would bet on before the reapings even happened. Some would say it was a certain brand of high risk high reward gambling.

Some called it a braindead waste of money in case terrible tributes were reaped. But if somebody like Snag could win, who couldn't?

As the reapings began champagne bottles were opened up, food was eaten excessively, and cheers rang out. The typical reactions of each year, of course.

The first gambler was as rich as they came, always distasteful of anything that he did not see as perfection. Even the tiniest flaw was met with hatred and contempt. He saw all the Districts as bug nests in need of harsh, cruel control… but somewhat less so for District One. Rich should not harm rich, after all. That's why this gambler was very pleased when a pair of tall, beautiful warriors volunteered with looks of pure greed in their eyes.

The second gambler was all about violence and loyalty. She'd absolutely loved all the cruelty and torture in the arena ever since she was a wee little thing sitting on her mama's knee. To her, seeing the characters on TV brutalise each other was as fun as life got… extremely! Their capacity to hurt and the fact they willingly bent the knee for their rulers was why the second gambler was forever loyal to District Two. She applauded as two teenage warlords volunteered, viciousness and hatred for all weaker than them filling their muscular forms.

The third gambler was one who appreciated a good, strong mind and felt that District Three simply gave the most useful, entertaining goods and supplies. The man thought the kids who talked in all that silly tech talk were adorable and so was more than happy to sponsor large chunks of money to the pair from the technology district this year; a scrawny boy with coke bottle glasses and an emotionless, tall girl who twitched every few seconds. The third gambler did not miss the way the boy was already muttering to himself, analysing the situation intently.

The fourth gambler liked the unpredictable nature of District Four. Would they offer up wimpy, whiny children or would it be a year where, like Sinbad of the previous Games, they'd have a ruthless and cruel volunteer? It was ever so much fun to try and guess which children would be made to fight, and the gambler felt himself smiling when two burly whalers volunteered to face the arena.

The fifth gambler frequently bought Crimson's company for the night and simply wanted to have another Victor from Five to sleep with. He leered in delight when a stocky power plant worker and an athletic young lady were picked.

The sixth gambler was obsessively loyal to Six and believed their poor luck in the Games was due to straight up riggage. She'd help one of the two tiny orphans make it back home even if it killed her!

The seventh gambler was one of Jack's drinking buddies whenever the thief came by the Capitol for whatever reason and so had a personal sort of bias for the lumber district. She'd do whatever she could to help one of the two powerful lumberjacks make it home… preferably the boy as the girl's nose looked ever so wrong.

The eighth gambler was sick enough to find Woof's actions to the boy from Two in the Sixteenth Games hilarious and hoped to bring home another sicko 'for the lulz'. He didn't think either of the fourteen year old sock makers from District Eight would be sick in the head, but a man could dream.

The ninth gambler gorged on bread all day, every day. The lazy lump felt she owned it to District Nine to reward their bread baking skills and make a solid effort to send in something vital – perhaps a scythe? – to either the tiny boy who worked in the fields or the foul mouthed baker's daughter.

The tenth gambler was a furry and hoped the ranch hands from District Ten were as well. He wasn't a weirdo, dammit!

The eleventh gambler wasn't so much a fan of Eleven as much as she hated the other districts so much more. Due to failed bets, late shipments, personal 'district racism' and other petty reasonings District Eleven had her support by default. As the gambler was a filthy rich woman it seemed the burly harvester and the young fruit picker were in luck.

The twelfth gambler was the biggest risk taker of all. What better risk than providing support for the statistical weakest district of the past few years? Win or lose, and indeed he lost constantly, he simply loved the thrill of making irresponsible bets and was fine to ensure the two starving seam kids would at least get water in the arena.

Bets were made, hands were shook and the gamblers settled to enjoy food, wine and the rest of the opening broadcast. None of them could see what was going on within the judgement buildings, per the norm, but all of them felt confident in their bets.

Perhaps the first gambler may have reconsidered if he saw how foolishly, spitefully arrogant his tributes were. They both assumed they'd won already.

Perhaps the third gambler would have made an even higher bet when the boy from Three, Beetee Latier, was already going over the idea of using some of the wiring that came from the launch tubes. His plan was in motion far before the gong.

Maybe the vile fifth gambler would have not bet if he'd known both his tributes were suicidal after years of suffering and shook hands, welcoming death with open arms.

The eighth gambler might have looked elsewhere if he'd known the Eights were law abiding good kids and that, in fact, it was the girl from Eleven who was secretly a pure sadist.

But… wasn't the mystery part of the fun of betting?

* * *

For many of the casuals of the Hunger Games it could be said that the pre-Games events, while patriotic, were kind of always the same thing. The real action was always found within the arena.

But for the hardcore fans, those who had either the money or power to unlock certain 'doors', it was a chance to gain insiders knowledge. The twelve gamblers had, of course, already made their bets by this point and thus there was no bet changing to be done… but who cared? Knowledge was power and they all thirsted for information on their chosen tributes for the year.

The first gambler was incredibly smug. His pair had been tormenting the bugs from the outlying Districts and both scored tens. They were formidable and unbeatable by all aside from each other. He sunk ten thousand more caps into his bet, convinced that things would be going his way. The fact his pair had broken the boy from Three's glasses had him chuckling well into the night. Sure, they'd be replaced, but petty acts like this were what he lived for.

The second gambler laughed as she gobbled up mouthfuls of sugared popcorn, approving the fact one of her tributes had 'accidently' knocked the girl from Ten off the obstacle course and broken the girl's leg. Some would call it a low and cowardly action. She'd call it funny and proof she'd chosen the right District to support.

The third gambler felt curious more than anything else. The girl was doing her best to learn all kinds of new skills and poured over all the books in her free time to keep her mind sharp. The boy was an oddball. Aside the glasses he'd lost, the boy had been almost invisible. Sure, he trained as any tribute would, but the most that he'd said was muttering about how strong the pack were and how, united, nobody stood a chance. It seemed the pack had picked up on this and were always in the same place as each other. The third gambler sighed, it seeming like the boy had sealed his fate and only made the pack becomes more than mere comrades.

The fourth gambler felt ever so pleased that his pair had both been accepted into the career pack. His eagerness only grew when, to his delight, a surprise was revealed – his tributes had been siblings separated at birth. Oh me, oh my, what fun!

The fifth gambler felt annoyed that his pair did little aside from sit together, talk and hold hands. Apparently they even prayed together one time. He felt bitter; how was he supposed to fuck them after they won if they didn't learn any skills?

The sixth gambler learnt that her pair were skilled pickpockets and had stolen over ten tribute tokens before being asked to stop. That kind of skills made her sure that Chassis would finally have another victor to keep him company.

The seventh victor was told facts of what happened… she just couldn't remember them at all because she got totally smashed when she went out drinking with Jack. Her wallet also went mysteriously missing.

The eighth gambler felt pissed off that his pair hadn't been toxic, but rather had extended an olive branch of peace to the Nines and formed an alliance of sorts. He ended up watching Woof violating Valour on loop for three hours.

The ninth gambler just gorged on bread, near oblivious to all going on around him. If he was happy that his pair had an alliance or how the boy had scored a ten he did not show it. It would appear bread came first, forever and always.

The tenth gambler sulked in his fursuit. Yet again District Ten had produced a total of zero furries. What did it matter that the boy was a beast with the lasso or that the girl started a crazy food fight? They still weren't furries!

The eleventh gambler heard that the girl had needed to be sedated after trying to stab the girl from Three in the bathroom. It had been a very near miss, one that had the gambler all the more eager for the blood that would be spilt soon enough.

The twelfth gambler hears that all the miners have done is cry, whimper and sob off in a dark corner of the training centre. All he can think of is the amazing pay-out the 75-1 odds will give him if one of his pair can pull off a darkhorse victory. If Snag could, why not these two?

The gamblers go to sleep a little after midnight, each of them convinced that – even if their tributes might suck, in some cases – their bets will be certain to pay off and leave them swimming in money.

Beetee, meanwhile, stays awake until 3AM studying all the books that his escort could get for him about arena construction, facts about wiring and the top one hundred best ways to make a powerful, reliable circuit. All it took was a bit of flattery and tempting the escort with how this knowledge could help Beetee win and, thus, make them famous.

If this technical outside interference lands the escort into serious trouble Beetee doesn't care. His own life comes first and foremost. It just has to.

* * *

Money changes hands and the sixth gambler is left feeling smug as the arena comes into view for the first time. The sky is covered in rainclouds, the ground is squishy and coated in a layer of twigs and leaves. Lightning flashes loud and proud. The tributes gaze around in mixed fear and wonder at the massive trees that tower in all directions, spreading out for miles upon miles.

It's a rainforest. There's no poison at all unlike the toxic island of the previous year and with several eroded temple buildings around the island for plenty of variety, mystery and intrigue it's a place the Capitol citizens are eager to see the Games played out in. The teasing glimpse of a ferocious tiger one of the cameras gives only further increases the excitement.

Everybody notices and gasps over how the Cornucopia is not gold this year, but rather a chromatic sort of silver. Partly as President Snow wants to save gold for his own personal interests. Partly as he's cementing his role as president for, he intends, the rest of his life and wants to mark his power to all of the nation. The era of Snow will contain silver Cornucopias and much, much more.

Halfway through the countdown the pair from Five lock eyes, smile and share a salute to each other from their side by side pedestals.

"Fuck the Capitol! May it burn in hell!"

With that, the pair jump to the landmines and are blown to pieces. The fifth gambler screams and swears until his face is blue and his lungs are empty. He screams at how unfair it is. He lost money and two potential whores! He believes it cannot get any worse than that.

He storms off to get a strong bottle of wine to chug down right as the gong rings, the remaining twenty two tributes making their move, whether it's closer to the horn of plenty or off into the massive rainforest.

The first gambler laughs uproariously as his pair reach the Cornucopia first and lay claim to a pair of serrated swords. His laughter is met with the frustrated groans of the sixth and twelfth gamblers as the girls from Six and Twelve are swiftly murdered.

The second gambler fans herself, eagerly watching her boy mutilate the life out of the newly-crippled girl from Ten. Her begging only excites the second gambler even more.

The ninth gambler doesn't even notice that his boy was ganged up on by the Fours and the girl from Two, too busy wolfing down more bread.

The eleventh gambler curses when her girl is killed midway through torturing the little boy from Six by the big lad from Four.

It soon becomes a frenzy of cheering, shouting and gibberish as the action becomes too frantic to properly keep track of. Indeed, once the thirteen cannons fire they start to replay the bloodbath in slow motion to get a proper look at the best bits and to be certain of who still has a chance of their bet paying off.

The sixth, tenth, eleventh and twelfth gamblers join the fifth gambler over at the wine table, their tributes laying dead in pools of blood, entrails and other bodily fluids. They'll always be next year, but losing money always sucks.

The first, second, fourth and seventh gamblers remain smug and eager. Their tributes made it through mostly unscathed and each of them made at least one kill. The odds are in favour of them winning back their money and then some.

The third, eighth and ninth gamblers are neither big winners nor big losers. One of their tributes remains alive and at least somewhat-well. The real Games are beginning now and all remain confident in their bets.

The tributes are all shown on screen before long. The careers high five, laugh and prepare for their first hunt. Having been set on the path to friendship by the foolish boy from Three they forgo having a guard and plan to hunt as one big unit.

The Sevens stick together and flee towards a distant temple, hoping that it's safe. Even if it's not, both want to get out of the rain. The boy from Eight and girl from Nine keep their pre-Games alliance and run without a plan, hoping to be able to hide away deep in the rainforest. For now they seem to be alright.

Everybody, especially the third gambler, is confused by what Beetee has chosen to do. He ran from the very start… right towards a large tree which he spent the bloodbath climbing up while everybody was distracted either dying or murdering others. He remains concealed by the canopy of the rainforest, hidden from the vicious pack on the ground not even fifth meters from himself.

"Come on, come on…" Beetee mutters, gazing down at the pack.

Beetee bides his time in the tree for three hours. At last the pack head out to hunt, loudly traipsing towards the north laughing and chattering together. They don't look back as Beetee quickly makes his way down from the tree, almost losing his grip four times.

The gamblers expect him to load up on supplies and run for his life in the opposite direction of the careers. What he does leaves them all stunned.

Who could've bet that he would use a pickaxe and crowbar to strike at one of the launch pedestals until the outer covering was broken and the wires underneath revealed? Using a particularly thick and, most importantly, dry rag as insulation Beetee tears the lengths of wire free and stuffs them into the pockets of his jacket.

No sooner has he gathered up a backpack full of food, water, tools and some choice medical supplies he sets off into the rainforest…

…In the same direction that the careers headed off mere minutes prior.

The commentators have no idea what to make of it. The second gambler claims the boy must be suicidal while the twelfth gambler guesses he must be a born risk taker… or an idiot. Money is laid on the table as bets are made on his fate.

For the first time ever the third gambler is left very unsure of his bet. He's not no idea what the boy is thinking right now.

All he knows is that Beetee has a look of grim determination on his face.

* * *

By day two over three dozen bets had been won and lost by the time the pair from Seven took down the ferocious tiger mutt. The beast was slain, and impressively too, but both tributes were wounded. Indeed, the girl from Seven had been left with a limp and her left arm mangled. The boy barely had time to wrap a few bandages around it before more trouble arrived.

The career pack were by no means quiet, especially with the cracking of twigs under their heavy boots, but the noise of the fight had covered up their approach. They laughed and cheered as they swarmed and murdered the poor lumberjack girl like she was an animal up for slaughter. The boy from Seven met the same fate not long after that, though not before sinking his knife right into the shoulder of the boy from Two. Alas, the wound was not fatal… just painful as shit.

The seventh gambler cursed and drowned her frustration with four cans of expensive beer. The first, second and fourth gamblers only laughed with more smugness than before, all certain they would emerge victorious.

The eight gambler lay passed out, drugged. He'd lost interest in watching the boy from Eight being a gentlemen to the girl from Nine instead of doing something interesting (rape or murder were what the eighth gambler prayed for). The ninth gambler was awake, but instead of watching his remaining tribute and her ally exploring the large temple and barely dodging traps he was more interested in gorging on ten loafs of bread, using a drink to vomit it all up and then eat even more.

The third gambler watched the screens, smiling as he started to understand what Beetee was doing. Well, part of it anyway. By following behind the careers from a safe distance he was keeping himself out of their way in areas they had assumed to be clear of any tributes. They had no reason to double back due to how much gear they were carrying around.

Of course, his plan to evade them didn't explain why he'd vandalised the launch tube and claimed the wires within. Technically there was no rule against it, but it had the Gamemakers a little bit on edge for what the boy had in mind.

It seemed that, whatever he had in mind, it would be revealed soon enough. The careers were closing in on the boy from Eight and the girl from Nine. After that, it'd be just Beetee and the pack. No way would the Gamemakers let him evade them for more than a day.

If Beetee was worried about his rapidly depleting time limit he did not show it. Indeed, his grimly determined look seemed to give way to genuine confidence when he saw how the six members of the career pack a hundred meters ahead of him walked close together in tight formation.

The scrawny nerd smirked.

* * *

Dawn arrived and was marked by the screams of despair and pain from the boy from Eight and girl from Nine. The careers made a real meal of killing them, leaving them as hardly resembling people. As they exchanged hi-fives and chest slams all around the first, second and fourth gamblers toasted together; they were certain one of them was going to win the bet.

Each knew it'd be they who won the big money, of course.

As they upped the stakes even more with extra money in the prize pot the third gambler focused on the screen, wondering what Beetee was going to do next. He'd held back as the pack ran into the temple and landed their latest kills a few hundred meters away.

If he was going to act, it was now or never. The Gamemakers had activated a cloud of poisonous fog that surrounded the area, looping around just outside the boundaries of the rainforest temple.

The gamblers watched as Beetee carefully observed the ceiling that had, by now, collected three days of rain above itself.

The genius boy pinpointed the weakest spot of the ceiling and acted fast. A few hard tosses of several rocks was all it took for the heavily eroded ceiling to gain a hole and start to leak water into the temple, gradually filling the hallway.

Beetee wiped away his sweat with a rag, taking out the wires he'd collected. Acting with great care, even as the distant footsteps of the careers started to get closer, he took out a battery he'd swiped from the Cornucopia and got to work with connected everything together.

The wire became live just as the boy from One audibly asked, from a mere two corridors away, if he they could use just their bare fists on Beetee to draw out the last kill before their perfect alliance won. His allies all agreed to this, laughing like old friends.

The first gambler was smug.

The second gambler drooled at the thought of the violence and suffering.

The fourth gambler bounced in his seat at the thought of all the money he'd win.

The third gambler gulped, hoping he'd not put himself halfway to bankruptcy.

Beetee narrowed his eyes.

A shock to all, he didn't run or even crouch down behind some rubble to hide. He let out a loud shout. He quickly shouted twenty five decimals of pi.

The career pack were quickly after him and ran into view hardly ten seconds later. They all grinned eagerly at the sight of the small nerd standing at the far side of the hallway.

They noticed Beetee's light smirk.

By then it was far, far too late to do a thing as he jumped out the doorframe to the rainstorm outside and tosses his electrical gizmo behind him.

As Beetee landed roughly and rolled a few times before coming to a stop in a patch of very damp moss screams of agony filled the air. Each of the six careers were being filled with tens of thousands of electric volts, helpless to do a thing to get away. Their boots were not shock proof and thus there was no escape from the electrified water filling the old hallway.

The electricity only stopped when the battery exploded from the pressure put upon it, leaving the hallway smelling of smokey, charred flesh as the careers collapsed in a heap to the ground, their bodies still lightly twitching.

The cannons fired.

The first gambler tore out his hair, screaming and snarling at how it was 'rigged'.

The second gambler ranted and raved over the awful finale and how there wasn't any bloodshed at all.

The fourth gambler was torn between feeling furious that his bet had failed and how amazingly unforeseen the finale was.

The third gambler collected all of the prize money, laughing and cheering at the massive earnings that would easily last him for over a week. It was always good to feel like a winner, just like the tributes who survived to the end.

The other gamblers were varied amounts of pissed off about the money they had lost… but, at least there would always be next year. There would _always_ be more Hunger Games.

Beetee didn't know any of this. As far as he was concerned he was just glad to be alive and that his plan had worked out better than he could have ever hoped for; ensure the pack became close to keep them in one place, grab all the electric equipment from by the cornucopia, follow the pack around as they mowed down the others and then strike them when they were all together just at the end.

Honorius, from the mentor control room, was just glad to have saved another tribute. Then again, he mused, had he really done anything? Beetee had never been sent a single gift, per his insistence as it would've given his location away. This one was all on the boy's genius, brilliant mind… and, as both would agree, a bit of luck as well.

Both sat quietly on the train ride home several days later, silently watching a rerun of Fiona and Lawrence on the TV. Despite how heavy the mood was and how Beetee was shaken by the fact he'd ended six lives so easily, there was one thing both victors agreed on.

One bet that both of them were certain would end in their favour.

They bet that Pi, wherever she was in the unknown beyond the grave, would've been glad that another child from District Three had made it home at last.

* * *

The pair held their silence for a while, their respect for the genius victor from Three ever so clear.

"Glad you made it here with us Beetee," Peeta whispered.

The pair continued on their way further down the street and only a few paces later they came to the next face imprinted upon the sidewalk. A girl with short hair that barely reached her neck looked back at them, freckles across her face and a look of cunning in her eyes. Notably, she had a neckbrace on from her shoulders to around her forehead.

"No mistaking that neck brace," Peeta said, wincing. "That'll be Porter Tripp."

"How did she get that spinal injury again?" Katniss asked, curious.

"I honestly couldn't tell you," Peeta replied, shuddering. "I just know it was apparently one of the most brutal finales of its day."

"Who told you that?" Katniss asked.

"The man from Five who died in the Quell. Neon, I think," Peeta stated. "Heard him mention it while he was training drunk."

The pair went silent, paying respect.

* * *

And there we are, that was Beetee! I thought this was a fun sort of format to work with; it's long been a known thing that people make big bets on the Hunger Games, but the gamblers haven't ever exactly gotten 'top billing' in something. Hope you guys enjoyed seeing the reactions and thoughts of the greedy gamblers… and that it didn't take attention away from Beetee himself? I tried to ensure it didn't. Either way, another canon up next! Granted, a canon that we only know due to supplementary materials, but a canon regardless. What tale may Porter have lived through? …Stay tuned to find out!

* * *

 **Stats**

 **District 1:** Peridot Gaudy (8th Games), Crystal McCree (14th Games), Bronze Marley (19th Games), Crown Martins (24th Games), Dollar Dettwieller (32nd Games)

 **District 2:** Baron Overwhill (4th Games), Runa Peace (7th Games), Olga Machete (10th Games), Rook Valiant (17th Games), Boulder Atherston (20th Games), Vercingetorix Carnby (25th Games), Dragon Batofel (27th Games)

 **District 3:** Honorius Perthshire (5th Games), Pi Orbit (22nd Games), Beetee Latier (37th Games)

 **District 4:** Museida Selkirk (3rd Games), Mags Flanagan (11th Games), Tide Luther (23rd Games), Librae Ogilvy (35th Games)

 **District 5:** Shunt Gaspar (12th Games), Isobel Sparks (18th Games), Crimson Flanders (29th Games)

 **District 6:** Chassis Macalister (31st Games)

 **District 7:** Pliny Aransio (2nd Games), Fir Buzz (9th Games), Jack Tylos (21st Games), Snag Nakamura (34th Games)

 **District 8:** Woof Casino (16th Games), Paige Murphy (30th Games)

 **District 9:** Mizar Aldjoy (1st Games), Gwenith Rosebud (13th Games), Teff Withers (28th Games), Laurel Flamsteel (36th Games)

 **District 10:** Stallion March (26th Games)

 **District 11:** Bear Redfoot (15th Games), Seeder Howell (33rd Games)

 **District 12:** Duke Saint-Rose (6th Games)


	39. Porter Tripp

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Hunger Games. They belong to Suzanne Collins.

 **Note:** Here we are, another victor in the long line-up! Porter has always been a fairly interesting victor to me. Like, we know nothing about her at all side the injury she took within her Games and that she came from District Five. That's literally it… and you know what, I think canon has given me just enough to work with! After that all it took was having the chapter be narrated just like Battleblock theatre… you'll see what I mean. Let's begin!

* * *

Katniss and Peeta had stood silently for a few moments, paying respect towards Porter. She was one of those, after all, who had been confirmed as deceased during the victor's purge. Not that anybody knew who had been responsible for the kill, of course.

"Did Porter ever heal? I mean, she didn't wear the neck brace for years did she?" Katniss asked, curious.

"I think she ended up being able to get it removed. Capitol tech or something like that," Peeta replied. "Imagine how many lives could've been saved if they hadn't hoarded all of their advancements."

"I try not to. I get depressed," Katniss said, a dull and depressed look within her eyes. "Call me crazy, but Porter… it strikes me as an odd name for a girl from Five."

"Yeah, I thought that too," Peeta said, nodding his agreement. "…Think there's a story behind that?"

"I have no idea," Katniss said, shaking her head. "They never really spoke about Porter on the TV. Not even during Games season."

"Must have been a scandal then," Peeta guessed.

* * *

 **38** **th** **Annual Hunger Games**

 **Name:** Porter Tripp

 **Gender:** Female

 **District:** 5

 **Age:** 18

 **Kills:** 2

* * *

Katniss and Peeta were not the only star crossed lovers that the Hunger Games ever had. Sometimes love would blossom, only to end up broken and inevitably forgotten once new tributes and flashier victors came along each and every year.

But there was one pair who would never be forgotten for at least a more or less reasonable time. One love story that simply stood no chance of turning out like a cliché fairy tale, both due to the rules of the arena and a particularly volatile ex-boyfriend. The 38th Hunger Games were from an era of great change and great violence within Panem, more than usual at least… and it all started with the Girl of Two Districts, Porter Tripp.

As anybody in Panem could tell you, each District had their own tastes for names. One favoured rather silly and fancy names, Two preferred strong and bold names, Twelve tended to use the name 'Coal' way more than they needed to and Seven generally used tree based names because they were not the most original of folk. But Five, they favoured things that related to their industry – Power. Node, Neon, Fusion, Atom and so forth.

Porter was not a District Five name.

It made sense, as Porter herself was not a District Five girl to begin with. Gather around, children, and I'll take you back in time for a story!

It was just after the end of the thirty seventh Hunger Games where Beetee shocked the nation – and the careers – with his unexpected victory. A certain gambler within the Capitol made a killing on their bet and went all out with buying the latest in artificial wing implants.

On the other hand a rather foul tempered fisher boy in Four by the name of Fisher – quieten down children, I can't tell you the tale if you keep laughing! – lost the major bet he'd put on his District's tributes and found himself in a spot of bother with the local debt collectors.

They left more than a spot upon his face. In fact, they left a few bruises, children!

He didn't like this, not one bit. That's why he returned home to his ratty apartment in the slums of Four and took out his frustrations upon his girlfriend Porter. Now I know what you're thinking, what kind of one-note person like that even exists? Well children, I'll tell you what kind… the kind who lost money and got beaten up by debt collectors for it.

Anyway, it was a loveless sort of relationship the two had. You know the classic story, boy meets girl, girl is mute and smiles at boy, boy asks girl to help him pick pockets, girl agrees, boy soon asks girl on date, girl is mute and doesn't exactly say no, boy becomes possessive over the course of several years, girl wants O-U-T and lacks options… as I said, a classic sort of story.

But normally Fisher was the sort who could be reasoned with after blowing off some steam for an hour or two. After that he'd grab a cheap beer, take a good swig and sit around until Porter finally came out from her hiding place to spend the rest of the evening awkwardly wondering where the nearest escape was and how she may flee towards it.

The night of the lost bet changed everything. Fisher was really angry, children, he was really pi-Mad! He was mad! Mad enough to ignore his girlfriend's silent plea for mercy and leave her with a broken arm. There was more than just trouble within Fisher's trolley, my friends.

Porter may have been silent, lanky and not exactly filled with any sort of muscle, but she had spirit – or stubbornness depending on who you ask – and fought through the pain to remain conscious until Fisher ended up falling asleep, bottle in hand. She packed up all her stuff and ran like the wind!

But where to? Where within District Four is a girl like Porter going to run, you may ask? Not much help to be found and all the ships get checked for any would-be stowaways. The answer is a lot simpler than you listeners might be thinking. She didn't run away into the depths of District Four.

No, silly children! Our silent heroine decided 'to hell with Four', packed all her admittedly few belongings, showed the District her favourite finger and made a run towards the train station. With so much security by the docks in those old days it meant that the train stations across Four were occasionally left understaffed. This was the case at the station Porter chose to make her getaway at and so it was that she made it onto a rickety old train without detection, riding it off into the night.

She didn't know it until the next morning, but she'd chosen to ride upon a train towards District Five. A District that was suffering from a bit of Peacekeeper peril after the previous Hunger Games. Talk about sidestepping a pothole only to fall of a bridge, right children?

* * *

Now it goes without saying, but the Capitol doesn't like to be disrespected. Seriously, one sneeze out of turn and its off to the woodchipper for you! Acting out of turn is dangerous enough, but calling them out and then having yourself and your district partner jump to the land mines? Orion would be rolling in his poison if he could have seen how such a display aired across Panem!

President Snow was never a man you should cross, unless you were crossing him off the guest list to a party that you weren't sure if he'd want to waste his time attending. He decided 'to hell with the feelings and rights of my fellow human beings' and was all like 'make them pay' to his Peacekeeper army.

Porter had an eventful first day in Five. You know how it is, piss off Snow and suddenly you and your neighbours have to deal with broken windows, smashed faces and that unenviable feeling of begging for death to end the pain. Ouch! For a government ruling what little remains of humanity the Capitol sure don't seem to care about much more than the short term, huh? But what do I know, children, I'm just the narrator here.

Porter was weak and hungry, barely dodging the chaos going on in the streets in her desperate quest for some vague form of sanctuary. She even almost got stabbed, frickin' _stabbed_! Nobody likes being stabbed!

Hiding herself in a back alley between a crate and a garbage can that smelt like last week's tuna surprise led her to witness something most unusual. It was a young man! Reddish hair, light muscles, a bleeding leg and a whimper like that of a dying animal, it was clear to Porter that this guy needed a helping hand, if not two!

So that's what she did, even in spite of her own battered arm and numerous hurt feelings. Porter was a total champ, children, as she took the young man over her shoulder and – after asking a passer by who, enviably, had no severe wounds, where the hospital was – took him off to get fixed up.

It wasn't just a day where District Five received one hell of a collective beating from a gigantic force of Peacekeepers. No, for it was much more! It was also a day where Porter made a friend! For you see, the battered boy whom she took to the hospital wasn't just any old boy with five broken ribs. No, quite the opposite! He had _six_ broken ribs and he was the son of the richest power plant owner.

Even in a dog eat dog world like Panem there exists a thing called 'being grateful for the fact somebody saved your son from literally dying', and so it was that the boy, Dezz, and his family gave Porter their profound thanks for her selflessness. Oh and, you know, gave the mute girl a place to stay due to her small case of complete and utter homelessness.

It was the first night in a long time that Porter was able to sleep soundly. No bed bugs would be biting her in her new cosy bed, no sir! With Fisher all but a bad memory and now with a new group of people looking out for her, it seemed like things would start looking up for our hapless heroine and maybe, just maybe, she'd finally get a chance to receive some help for her fractured psyche.

…We all know it won't be that easy, right? Right. Panem was a pretty hopeless place in those days children. Of course, even the word hopeless has hope in it, and if you rearranger the letters you get the word 'peeslosh'.

I guess the last part wasn't really necessary.

* * *

Change is inevitable, no matter who you are or what you claim to have bribed Father Time with. You could give him all the cotton candy in the land and change will still happen! In the months that led up to the reaping of the Thirty Eighth Hunger Games plenty of changes happened in Porter's young life, and some of them were pleasant to the point of not sucking even a little bit.

Porter turned eighteen, with gifts ranging from a massive chocolate cake to an extra slip with her name on it in the reaping bowl.

Porter had her first date with Dezz and it ended up being relatively kind of alright. Sure, the peacekeepers lining the streets made things a bit awkward, but where in Panem was not awkward in those days?

Porter was officially diagnosed with selective mutism. Many years of harsh consequences in response to speech - be it her once-living family throwing quite the tantrumy tantrum over her alleged bitching or Fisher smacking her silly for a word out of line – had given her an aversion to speaking in almost any given scenario. It was months, months and days, before she even uttered a single sound in the home of Dezz and his parents!

"Toast please…" she whispered one morning, barely audible.

It wasn't much to an outsider – I mean, unless the outsider loved toast and I guess when you get down to it most people do – but what it meant, why that was quite the big thing children! It meant a bond of trust had been well and truly formed. Jaws off the ground people, it was only inevitable!

But while Porter and Dezz made googly eyes at each other and basked in the moonlight of yesterday's promises - uh, whatever that means – things were also changing for the Victors of District Five.

Much like being a well paid doctor, being a Hunger Games victor in not all it is cracked up to be. Little personal life, hardly any chance to enjoy your wealth, not much sleep and the experiences you get from your job possibly inflicted oodles of unwanted, rather annoying PTSD.

Such was the case for Isobel and Crimson, the two living victors of District Five. At least Shunt was able to get some rest – well, in a manner of speaking – but for these two women it was all work and no play. No, children, Crimson being whored out to the highest bidder does not constitute play. Shame on you! Anyway, as I was saying, it was a hard time for the pair of Victors for a variety of nasty reasons that would drive all but the strongest among us to a quite literal mind break.

Crimson was frequently forced into sex against her will, lest her entire family be executed. It was a wonder and two halves that she was able to make it through each day and only spend six hours crying instead of, like, eight or nine.

Isobel was plotting and scheming as she and Crimson laid flowers upon Shunt's grave. A fancy thing, made fancier by the fanciful fabergé flowers… fancy! Anyway, Isobel was at her limit and as anybody who saw the Eighteenth Hunger Games could attest… well, Isobel could get particularly dangerous when she lost her temper.

They say her bellowing of 'go beyond, plus infinity' gives the odd career tribute nightmares.

She felt that it was time to act, to at least start off the groundwork for the inevitable second rebellion. The Captitol's treatment of her District after the previous Games was disgusting! Why, it was ever worse than some sort of butt salad! Isobel was truly done with fu-messing around! She was pi-ANGRY!

And so, as the reaping got ever closer she – with Crimson backing her up, of course – decided upon her plan of action. Grouping up the victors, those not from Capitol loyal backgrounds, in their own circle of rebellion is one thing but it takes more than that to stick it to the Capitol. It takes blood, sweat, tears and pizazz! Lots of pizazz!

Pizazz is exactly what she has, contained within the form of a small pellet containing a particularly nasty poison from Five. The kind that leads to a frothing mouth, pale green skin, wild stammering and then death. It's disgusting!

But before Isobel could try to pull an Orion 2.0 and take down the new president, she'd have to mentor another pair of tributes in hopes of one among them not ending up very seriously dead! But who would her tributes be this year?

Would they be tall or short? Fat or thin? Smart or dumb as a sack of waterlogged dormice? Left or right handed? The possibilities were practically endless, children!

As you may have guessed, Porter and Dezz reclaim their roles in this tale I'm telling you by having their names pulled from the reaping bowl. What bad luck! Triple the bad luck of stubbing your toe on a sharp piece of coral!

The young couple could only sit and grieve, wondering why such an unlikely thing ended up happening to them. Both members of a couple, one of whom hasn't even been living in District Five for a full year! What could have done this?!

If you've been paying attention, class, you'll know it's less 'what' and more 'who'. Porter's name had been pulled from the District Four reaping bowl, only for nobody to step up. All it took was the Capitol's spies and agents looking over their archive of footage to find a few traces of Porter and then the escort being told, via her ever so fashionable neon pink earpiece of course, to read out Porter's name no matter what the paper slip says.

Porter was rigged, Dezz was just plain unlucky, Five could only wish the young couple luck and Isobel knew right away that something was up.

Like many things, such as the invention of the donut, it was no coincidence and she knew it! But what would she do about this, children? What would she do?

Well, if I may be as bold to say it, she won't sit around in a dinosaur onesie with a karate magazine to look over. No sir, it was time for her to get into action!

* * *

In almost every Hunger Games in history, aside the very earliest few of all, there have been alliances. It was tradition for the career pack to group up and hunt down everybody else, but it was also likely for tributes to work alongside their district partner. I mean, let's face it, if somebody doesn't know you before arriving in the Capitol then what's stopping them from stabbing you like yesterday's steak? Literally nothing aside basic human decency and we all know that tends to get ignored in the arena!

Porter and Dezz allied right away, their plan being to work together to be the last two left alive and then… well, try not to die, somehow? Maybe dig a hole and stay in it? Marry in the arena? They decided to just work it out when they got there. Maybe if they tossed away their weapons and tied themselves together with duct tape or rope they'd force a tie?

It wasn't long before the first pair of star crossed lovers realised what the biggest danger to themselves was going to be. Now at first you might think it was those super strong fathead careers causing the heebie-jeebies. I mean, yikes, the boy this year has the word hate tattooed on his teeth! That's more hate than you'd find in a typical shark mutt!

But no, it wasn't the careers and it wasn't the gamemakers either. And shut your faces children, because it wasn't the boy from Six with Crohn's Disease who kept shitting himself. He was the biggest source of grossness, but he wasn't a threat. I mean, besides being a threat to everybody's nostrils…

No, children, it was Fisher! Remember him? The guy from Four that started this whole tall tale of mine with he was all like 'you bitch, taste my fist' to Porter? That Fisher? Yeah, it turned out that he'd volunteered for the Games that year. What coincidence that must have been! Or, you know, fate having a good old merry chortle at Porter's expense.

Porter recognised Fisher and obviously the Bitter Betty from Four recognised his ex-girlfriend. During the first day of training there was arguments and shouting that were basically all coming from Fisher, it was like really scary and noisy and there might have even been a girl who pissed herself1 The horror, the horror of it all!

The pack of five members were on one side, the Fives were on the other, the rest of the tributes were just kind of hanging around and wondering whether to support the couple from Five or stay on the careers' somewhat good side and join in with mocking their faces. You couldn't cut the tension with an exploding chainsaw, children!

Eyeing the spectacle as it played out were the Gamemakers. They all liked a good spot of violence for afternoon entertainment, either that or a good romance movie. It just so happened that this year the Games were offering up both. Sure, there had been the odd ill fated romance in the Games in previous years, but never to this sort of a degree.

It was obvious to the Head Gamemaker, Paris Cobble, was eating up the drama like a fine peach pie with two scoops of ice cream. Two! And how could she not? Romantic drama, a girl who ran from one District to another and found her true love, a jealous ex with a history of violence… it was all to die for! Literally, as a matter of fact! Well, the tributes would anyway, not the Gamemakers, no sir.

Day one of training came to an end and with it an idea was born. Overcome with fantasy, dreams and more than a bit of personal bias towards the star crossed lovers from District Five, Paris hatched quite the twist for this year of the Hunger Games. A grand spectacle of a twist! Not a Quell-level twist, but certainly something worth letting off a party popper about.

Using a security camera to watch the pair from Five silently holding each other on the living room sofa of floor five, more words in their eyes than any amount that could be spoken, made her all the certain of her plan. It would be grand! It would keep ratings away from rock bottom! It might even ensure she was promoted, or at least not executed like that guy who added the hand grenades into the games. I mean, was he for real?

The plan might even make the shippers happy, the shipper people! It goes without saying, children, but the Capitol – being somewhat halfway towards purely obsessed with idealised romance – really like shipping.

So of course, what else could the plan have been besides marrying the tributes to each other?

* * *

The second day of training started off pretty normal, all things considered. The traditional torment of the weak from the strong, the clashes of blades and blunt objects upon dummies, one kid crying off in the corner and, of course, two career boys arguing over who had a bigger sword while one random outlier was unable to hold back a faint snicker. Such fine traditions for this not-so-fine country. It seemed the day was going to be fairly standard.

Or was it?

Not a chance! Training ended two hours earlier than usual and the tributes were given an exciting surprise announcement from Paris. That is, after she politely requested Fisher to stop scowling and making borderline sociopathic gestures towards the Fives.

Everybody was taken aback from the plan to legally marry all of the tributes together. The boy from one laughed, thinking the whole thing was hilarious. The girl from Two just shrugged, not caring either way. The boy from Three tried to mumble something about not liking women while the girl from Nine asked where she could file from divorce, not liking the look of her somewhat gangly district partner. Sheesh, I guess looks are everything to some people!

Porter and Dezz looked at one another, wide eyed. Much to the delight of Paris they joined hands, leaning it to gently nuzzle noses like infatuated Innuits or something. They had no issues with such a thing happening to them, especially with the likelihood of one, or both, of them dying in the gruesome days of the arena.

At least they'd have a few days to know what it was like to be married. You know, besides stuff like fighting over who left the toilet seat up and who would pay for the latest meal out.

By a pure fluke, this one of the extremely rare years where the tributes from each district were the same age. Imagine that! I mean, what kind of odd are those? Awfully unlikely and suspicious convenient if you ask me! If nothing else it made paring up the tributes a hell of a lot less creepy than it otherwise may have been. If you ask me forced marriage is still creepy, but I'm just the narrator here. I'm Booboo the fool.

There were fairly happy couples like the Ones and the Sevens who had gotten along fine with their District Partners from the start. Additionally, the kids from Eight simply appreciated the fact they'd gotten the first date of their lives… I mean, if a shared plate of cookies in the canteen counts as a date. I suppose it does?

There were the neutral couples who didn't really care one way or the other. Just like my parents, fancy that! Among these two were the Twos and the Tens.

There were couples like the Sixes and the Twelves where one partner clearly did not want to be near the other, and awkward couples like the Threes where, during a late night talk, both had a good laugh over the fact they were both gay and called the whole thing ridiculous, content to just act like it did not exist.

Oh, and the Fours were three steps past messed up. Fisher even slapped his new wife! He slapped her, the silly bastard! He wanted to win, of course, but more than that he wanted Porter back… right before he cut her open for leaving him behind.

But the Fives… the _Fives_! They were the happiest couple of them all, like seriously it wasn't even close. It was a delightful display of kisses, explosions of romance and explosions of romantic kisses! Frankly Paris just could not get enough of them!

But every tale must end someday, children, and it was likely that the day in question was not to be very far away. After all, all too soon it was the night before the Games would begin and lives would end in ever so messy, disgusting ways.

Caesar really outdid himself for the interviews, keeping a balance between the theme of romance, making each tribute stand out from their new husband or wife and ensuring that the crowd got the odd hint towards or blatant display of ferocity for the arena.

None were more ferocious than Fisher, the recruit of the career pack vowing to personally take out both of the Fives. Many a shipper booed him that night – ironic when you think about it, what with Four being a district of shippers, albeit a different sort – whereas those who didn't hold any feeling aside contempt for the romance between the Fives cheered him on, vowing to send him plenty of gifts to help him return home alive.

Porter didn't make a sound throughout the entire spectacle. She never said a single word, not even a quiet 'bugger off' to Fisher. No, the mute girl was content to remain as exactly that. Of course, if mindreading was possible then you can bet there would be a whole monologue oF thoughts to filter through.

Among those thoughts would be ' _No, no, no! Get me out of here! Not again! Please, not again! No more pain… no more beatings… Fisher, no_!' But, that's just a guess. Who can say for sure?

* * *

So… Isobel. Remember her? Yeah, she's still alive and kicking as I tell you my tale. While the tributes boarded the hovercraft to take the ride of their lives, and deaths, towards the arena and Crimson got sent off to her next appointment lest her family get shoved through the woodchipper, Isobel was a woman on a mission! A grand mission, full of bells and whistles… and rebellion!

It all started, of course, with playing the part of a mentor trying to get sponsor finds for her tributes regardless of her personal feelings of the residents of the Capitol. Quite a good thing when you consider that was precisely her goal in the first place; she doesn't want those kids to end up dead, children! Perish the thought!

But Isobel could only take so much of the mindless chatter of the citizens and their lack of understanding of the tributes being more than just characters on TV. So, quite understandably, she got out of there with the haste of a greased rabbit and passed by an Avox on the way to her taxi.

An avox she'd requested for Mizar to have meet her there at that specific time. He had, after all, paid for the avox's life a few years back.

She silently passed the poison pill over towards the avox, as sly as a fox from city full of, well, foxes.

Only a glance, a mere instant within time, is all she allows herself to look into the eyes of the avox as she continues on her way to the taxi, sponsor funds collected. Any longer would make her a wee bit suspicious, and Isobel couldn't be having that. What good is a murder plot if it's busted before it starts?

But it wasn't just suspicion that she risked, children. No, no, it was also tears. Thick, salty, wet, shimmering tears.

Why, you ask? Well… if your wife, or equivalent, were turned into an avox because you were deemed to be behaving a bit badly… wouldn't you get a bit misty in those eyes of yours?

One nanosecond of eye contact between Isobel and Keen was all they could manage. Better than nothing, but nowhere close to enough.

Isobel vowed to make them pay! Not amount of caps could pay quite the same demand as the blood, or poison, of revenge and rebellion! Perhaps a dozen pizza parties could to, but Isobel was pretty dead set on taking out the newest president and crippling the Capitol. So, good luck to her with that!

* * *

Two things were clear from the moment the tributes were put into the arena, and I'm not talking about how it was painfully obvious the boy from Six had shit himself again.

The first that the typical tribute uniforms – always generally suited for the not so great outdoors and with some form of protection from the worst of the arenas' bipolar weather patterns – had been foregone and replaced with tuxedos for the male tributes and wedding dresses for the girls. The typical colours per District, from avocado green for District One and coal black for District Twelve, were maintained with fancy ties for the boys and sparkly opera gloves for the girls. If there was ever a year to die and look fabulous while doing it, this was indeed that year!

The second was that the arena looked so fearsome you'd hardly need Crohn's Disease to poop your pants! The massive fairy-tale castle, the wondrous woods, the enchanted lake, the fantastical rainbow across the valley… you know what children, perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps the arena was not so much fearsome as it was a sugar bowl of fantasy. It sparkled and gleamed in the fair sunlight like a mother's kiss atop a mountain of sweet dreams.

Oh, and the Cornucopia was full of nasty weapons. Big knives! Short sword! Something that may or may not have been a kusarigama, a collectable set of shuriken's and, of course, spears that just longed to find a home in some poor kid's lower spine.

The gong rang and then it was all like RUN RUN RUN! Oh, but then it started to lightly rain and started getting all wet and soggy. There might have even been mud, but that's only half as bad once blood gets mixed in with it. Muddy blood? Gross!

The couples had all allied, even the ones who were clearly not head over heels in any sense of the term. An ally was an ally, but dead was dead and dead is exactly what several of the couples ended up as! They say people are to be wed until death do them apart and, alas children, love did not live eternally in the grassy clearing between the castle and the forest.

The Sixes had their necks broken in the same instant by the Twos, the Ones stabbed the boys from Ten and Twelve while Fisher and the girl from Seven finished off their wives hardly half a minute later. It was carnage, it was devastation and it was kinda gross as well! Ick!

While this went on other couples were already getting the heck out of that place like it were a public restroom and they had no gas masks! The pair from Eight fled for the castle while the 'just friends' duo from Three ended up legging it towards the lake.

But do we care about them? I sure kind of slightly do! But the real focus of our harrowing story are Porter and Dezz, and boy howdy it was a wonder and a half that they escaped with their lives and without severe loss of limbs or continued existence! I mean, running right into the fray to grab two large backpacks in right in front of the silver horn was just plain crazy! And believe me, I know crazy! But away they went, spears in hand and flocking towards the deep forest like a pair of pixies, or something. With only a few very minor bruises between them that only throbbed a little they sure got off lightly compared to the Sevens who lay upon each other within the horn of plenty, dead from a severe case of broken bodies. It was like if somebody put a watermelon in the car boot, then added a bowling ball and went for a drive across bumpy terrain. It was messy!

The dust settled with six districts eliminated, twelve corpses laying around the grassy clearing, over twenty pints of blood spilt all over the place and many, many thousands of shippers within the Capitol crying their faces off over how their favoured couples had been killed off. The lesson, boys and girls, is that no matter what pairing wins… the shipper lose, and they lose big!

The careers enjoyed the married life for what it was… a blatant way to get extra sponsor support if they acted romantic enough. You might think that sorting the weapons and supplies was impossible to fake a romance with, but you know what children? You're wrong! The Ones posed provocatively to each other, the Twos exchanged halfway decent small talk and the Fours… you got me there, there was nothing going on with the Fours. Fisher was sharpening a spear like some kind of a… spear using person… and the girl from Four, Algae? Well, she showed Fisher her favourite finger, gave a fine farewell and had ran off into the forest screaming like some kind of a lunatic souped up on helium. I mean, whatever works for her right?

Now, as one may have expected, Fisher got quite a lot of teasing for how his new wife had ran off and totally ditched him. In fact, Copper from One joked that this was the second time a girl had ditched Fisher and suggested he take notes from Copper's own 'happy marriage'.

As one might also expect, it took the combined strength of the rest of the career pack to hold Fisher back from killing Copper. How rude! Not to mention kind of crazy. We sure they made a good idea letting him into the alliance? Ok, if you say so…

In the end the careers headed out as the sun started to set, eager to find marriages to ruin by murdering the life out of the grooms and brides involved. Who needs a legal divorce when you can just make death do them part? I mean, they'd probably just be together again in mere minutes if both were killed at once, but eh… what do careers care about technicalities like that?

The arena may have looked rather pleasant and wondrous at a first glance, but children… remember when I told you that the arena was fearsome and all kinds of underwear soiling levels of awful, like a bad Adam Sandler film? Surprise, I wasn't lying after all! When the sun went down in the arena and the night began, horrifying things would happen. Terrible things! It'd be at least ten times worse than stubbing your toe on a vacuum cleaner!

The tributes had no idea what was getting closer with every passing second, but they would see soon. Oh, they would see…

* * *

The tributes had spread out reasonably far in the opening hours of the Games and each couple was spending their time in their own unique way. The Ones were hunting for tributes, the Twos were with them and doing the exact same thing… ok, maybe they were not unique but the rest were!

The Fours spent no time together as Fisher was with his alliance, frothing at the mouth in his deep desire to kill Porter, while Algae wandered aimlessly through the gradually darkening forest, about as lost as one of Peter Pan's lost boys. For the record, that's a lot of lostness!

The Threes set up camp by the lake, ever so wise to not risk starting a fire. It was well known that a fire attracted careers in much the same way honey attracted flies. The newlyweds without any sort of benefits had many worries, but at least a source of water was not among them!

The Eights made their way through the halls of the grand fairy tale castle, hand in hand. To them it was just like exploring the kingdoms of the stories told by their mothers. Both ended up settling down in the grand throne room. Such a luxuries seat to take a nap on!

The Fives, the smitten heroes of our story, had the bright idea to get away from the ground like a pair of human shaped birds. They even made a den in a large, abandoned bird nest. A love nest, if you will.

They spent the first part of the night cuddled up in the nest, whispering the sweet nothings of eternity – well, Dexx whispered them anyway – and getting themselves cosy while they still could. With how quiet the arena was at this part of the story it was almost like they could pretend they were on a honeymoon, camping out for the night. I'm not sure what couple would willingly go camping after a wedding, but to each their own. I'd be partial to visit Alaska, so am I any better?

But cuddliness never last long in the arena, children, and as a matter of fact it went well and truly down the road of oblivion as the arena clock struck midnight.

That was when the plot twist of the arena revealed itself! Boom, sha-vroom, bam, surprise!

The arena was a wondrous kingdom of magical goodness in the day, but at night… well, not to sound like a broken record but you'd probably poop yourself just looking at it! The trees became gnarled and gained an odour of sheer death, the lake became an evil black colour and bubbled ever so awfully, the castle would start being all scary and demonic and, to top of the ice cream sundae of pure misery, the rainbow would be replaced by a thick downpour of rain.

It was unpleasant to the point of being really crappy!

The careers were spooked, but overall did not pay it all much mind. They had supplies and deadly weapons. They could handle it, right? Right?

Well, they handled themselves fine on the first night but Algae sure didn't! The poor girl ran screaming through the forest, pursued by some horrible chimera of weeds and a human, inevitably getting caught and being put through a serious case of shredded torso. The weed mutt continued its sheer barbarism long after the cannon fired, far too focused on its sole purpose of destruction to think of doing anything aside mangling the body.

It eventually left an hour later, entirely oblivious to how the Fives had been hiding up the same tree Algae had died by, holding each other in a frozen sort of fear. Tunnel vision, a failing of many a mutt in the era of the Hunger Games, children.

Naturally, Porter and Dezz were quick to pull a Stallion and run the hell out of there!

* * *

The nightmarish night went on in the arena, all of the tributes being hassled in some way, shape or form. While the careers made a desperate escape into the castle to evade a few demonic unicorns and the pair from Three suffered the inconvenience of death by angry lake dwelling kraken things were a lot more pleasant in the outside world.

Sure, forced labour at threat of death of a thing and perhaps people were starving, but at least it was a nice summer day, right? Right?

Anyway, on this fine midsummer's day Isobel was on her way back to the mentoring station with new sponsor funds for her tributes. While technically she only needed to watch over Porter, the fact was that Crimson was flooded with all kinds of nasty and awkward appointments, thusly taking her out of the mentoring game and leaving Isobel with all the work. All of it! Yes, even _that_ bit too! It was a good thing that Isobel had kept her physical prowess sharp over the years, karate and all, or she'd drop dead from sheer tiredness I bet!

Isobel wasn't just making her way back to where she was legally required to be sooner than later, or else, no sir! On this day she was scouting out the competition!

On the surface it seemed as thought our hero of a rather mixed reception was watching as Olga effortlessly got sponsor pledges from Capitolites and Crystal working with Harp to get the money needed to buy a few sandwiches – pizza sandwich at that! - for the female tribute of One.

It was true of course, because holy smokes these careers attracted sponsors like a magnet attracts most metals. I'd be jealous if I were a mentor from a considerably less privileged District! But my point isn't Isobel being a Jealous Jill about sponsor hunting.

She was actually scoping out the sort of security that Snow had protecting him around the clock. Everything had a weakness and nothing lasted forever, Isobel knew this! Well, besides Wal-Mart, that'd probably always exist.

Snow was a man who loved power and especially loved showing it off like it were a contest of some sort. He always had plenty of guards around him when out in public, even in his own brand new rose garden. He was in a local steakhouse, enjoying a fine dinner with some of his ministers… and all the peacekeepers around the place, with avoxs there as well and one particularly nasty assassin known only as 'The Grim'. Paranoid headcase or self-aware and prepared, you be the judge. It would be hard indeed to get anything past him, especially a weapon. The attacker would likely be dead before getting close. That was to say nothing of guns; any place he could be sniped was so enclosed that it'd be impractical!

It was a riddle inside an enigma.

Still, Isobel saw the smallest of oversights in his security. Avoxs were able to come and go without the same suspicion that a person of free will, and possessing a tongue, would receive. Snow even drank tea given to him from them like some sort of a tea slurping tea lover! Isobel felt the plan could work with this little oversight.

The problem was, what if Keen died in the attempt of poisoning the tea? Could she really be a stone cold badass rebel and put her lover through such a thing? Or, indeed, any of the so-called traitors whom she sympathised with and the Capitol saw more as dolls or designer handbags than actual people?

She, much like seven in ten kids taking a math test, did not know. But she'd have to decide soon enough, for the only time to strike before another year of waiting was at the after-party of the Games. With only nine tributes left, the clock was ticking! Tick tock, tick tock!

* * *

They say time passes in a totally different way inside the arena compared to how it does on the outside. While on the outside the days pass in the snap of a finger and be gone before you know it, inside the arena everything slows down and a day can become an eternity.

Geez, if one day is an eternity then how long does that make the infamously dragged out Forty Fourth Games? Like, a super eternity?

Whether it was an eternity or a super eternity everybody was pretty on edge by the fourth day in the arena. The dreamy days and nightmarish nights that cycled constantly without fail had everybody on edge! They were so on edge that it was like they were sitting on the very edge of a cliff, almost falling off! Ouch! All this and, during the exploration of the magnificent castle, the girl from One had a rather unfortunate encounter with a chandelier trap.

Unfortunate because the chandelier fell on top of her and left as a sitting duck for all the hungry rats that roamed around at night. Horrifying! Gross! But at least the rats liked it, so go them?

The careers soon got into a spot of bother when traps started going off left and right within the castle. It was messier and wilder than a pie eating contest! Fisher and the girl from Two ran one way while the boys from One and Two ran the other. The latter were soon hot on the trail of the newlyweds of Eight, who hadn't done much aside be cute so far.

Hey, cuteness can work.

Fisher, meanwhile, led the ally he still had by his side on a mad hunt for Porter and Dezz. He craved their deaths like a shark craved blood! The girl from Two thought he was a bit doo-lally, but since he wasn't directing it towards her she felt certain she could put up with it for now.

Off went Fisher and his bitter ally in search of the Fives. Where could they be? What state were they in? How loud would they end up screaming?

Well, the answer to the first of those questions that that the Fives had shackled up in a cave beyond the lake at the furthest edges of the arena. Better yet, it was conveniently out of range of the slimy, gross kraken. How about that!

The answer to the second question was that they were in a splendid state. Turns out that being the favoured couple of the Head Gamemaker – though, not enough to both be allowed to leave – earns one and their lover a bit of lovely leniency from the traps and mutts of the arena. The pair were able to quietly snuggle, forage for food and watch the rainstorm in peace.

Obviously it wouldn't last forever, a fact made particular clear when a trio of angry unicorns chased the Fives through the darkness for a terrifying half hour. But even as they ran away, Dezz screaming and Porter silently shaking, Paris could only look at them and swoon.

It didn't get any more romantic than this!

* * *

The sixth day in the arena became known as something akin to the beginning of the end. The end of the shipping wars, that is. You know how it goes, you spend so much time caring for a pairing, watching their bond grow and expecting so much mastery payoff and then they suddenly die and you're all like 'why would you do that you stupid writer? Here, take a fist to your face, fatty!'

That was the reaction of several Capitol citizens when the boys from One and Two, armed to the teeth and toes, cornered the Eights upon the top of the castle's highest tower. It seemed as though love was doomed to die… but! But! Buuuuuuut!

Ok, no fooling around, love died. But it did not die with a whimper, not this year! The boy threw down an oil lantern he just so happened to have pilfered and the girl yanked a lit torch from the side of the tower, tossing it down. They held hands tightly, sharing one last gaze as they allowed themselves to fall off the tower.

It was kinda gross and left lots of mess for the hovercraft to clean up when all was said and done. But as fate would have it the fire mercifully meant there was little mess to be collected from what remained of the boy from Two. The fire took care of that just fine. What a good little fire! Of course, this also had the side effect of killing one half of the District Two pair and making more shippers cry. Alas!

At around the time the boy from One fell from the tower, badly burnt, and miraculously landed in a wagon of hay, Porter and Dezz were quickly on the move in hopes of getting out of the rain. Porter had caught a cold by now and Dexx had sprained an ankle while running from the mutts.

It was a wonder, if you ask me, that Porter hadn't tripped. Let it be known, children, that wedding dresses are not made for running in!

The rain came down, down, down and yet they ran, ran, ran! Both of the star crossed lovers expected mutts, or worse, now that only five tributes were still alive.

They ran right towards the castle, bolting for the entrance in spite of the burning tower. The lower levels seemed safe enough, so why not risk it and not end up with something worse than the common cold. Rain is pain, children!

Time may pass slow in the arena, but life happens fast. So does the ever sombre opposite.

One moment Porter was pointing out the paintings on the wall to Dezz, silent enthusiasm for the wondrous portraits that told a thousand words in just one simple image.

The next moment she twisted around sharply as footsteps echoed right behind her, accidently spearing the half-mad boy from One from the simple force of her turn.

Porter was very, very sad that night, children. She recoiled as the burnt, battered, beefy boy collapsed and, if it were possible for a mute to do so, she went quieter than ever. Some people don't take well to the knowledge that they're a murderer.

It was a very quiet night in the castle dungeons, save for Dezz's valiant efforts at reassuring Porter that it was not her fault. It had been an accident, hadn't it? He did have to die for them to reach the top two, did he not?

Alas, Porter did not cheer up and in spite of their efforts to keep going with the guise of being a happily newlywed couple… the honeymoon period had ended.

The couple remained down in the dungeon for most of the storm night. The only time they ventured out was to watch the anthem, with it coming the realisation they were the only couple still alive to share holy matrimony together.

The shippers of the Fives rejoined! There were parties in the streets, in fact! The shippers of the other pairs sulked all night long.

The Gamemakers, meanwhile, lacked any real attachment and awaited the orders from Paris to target any of the tributes with the worst of tortures. It was night time after all and the monsters were lurking.

They lurked deep in the forest.

They lurked within the lake.

They lurked in every dark shadow of the castle.

The wedded couple worked as one, sending those castle dwelling demons off to their deaths with a jolly good spear stab and back to back cohesion. It was glorious!

Fisher and the girl from Two also managed to fight off every mutt that came their way. The girl from Two remained behind Fisher, content to use throwing knives to get the job done.

Fisher, meanwhile, was a total Stabby McStabberson with his trust spear. He was mad like a bull! It probably didn't help that the cave he and his ally stayed at was the same one previously inhabited by the Fives.

Fisher didn't miss how, scribbled onto the cave's wall in chalk was the short phrase D/P within a heart.

The cameras didn't miss how pi-MAD he was. The nation bore full witness to his volatile and violent fits of anger, the rage not passing even when all of the mutts in the nearby area had been killed.

Legend tells that a sponsor arrived containing a snickers, the note suggesting he was being a 'right diva' due to being hungry and suggesting he take a bite.

Fisher snarled, his ally giggled and the nation as a whole haw-haw'd.

* * *

The Games played out for another two whole days without any deaths, or even notable injuries. Mainly because Paris just could not get enough of her favourite pairing. The love between the Fives was like crack to her! The most glorious crack around!

The Fives were oblivious to this, of course, and made the most of the time they still had to spend with each other. Star gazing from a tower's peak, dining on what they could fine in the castle's kitchen, playing a particularly childish game of dress-up with the king and queen outfits… for as long as the Gamemakers would allow it they simply wanted to ensure their relationship. Their marriage. Their togetherness.

Lucky for them that the Head Gamemaker was more addicted to romance than a man in rehab is addicted to all the good stuff!

Fisher, meanwhile, was a man on a rampage. He showed the world who was boss by tearing the grass, punching the trees, kicking the stones and stabbing his spear at mid-air. It was apparent by now that the boy was entirely sane, though not enough so to ban him from victory.

The girl from Two just followed him a tune, finding the whole display a strange mixture of embarrassing and impossible to turn away from. Much like a street magician who has no idea how to do magic when one thought about it.

Of course, a love triangle can only have three members and Paris had become particularly fixated on ensuring a showdown between the lovers and the vicious ex. It was sure to be a bigger spectacle than anything that could be seen on cable TV! But how to dispose of a tribute from Two?

Two was the suck-up District and couldn't be dumped like a run off the mill Twelve, children.

The problem solved itself halfway through day eight. Fisher grew tired of the career girl's talking, always 'calm down' this and 'what does it matter, she's moved on from you' that. One moment the girl stood speaking, the next she lay on the ground with her tongue torn out and her throat speared.

Paris opened up a bottle of champagne, rather pleased that she was to get the showdown she wanted. It was like every single day of her life – getting everything that she wanted.

She could have the finale start right away… or, children, she could indulge herself in more of her romantic fantasies. As you listeners probably guessed, she picked the latter and had the Gamemakers use some fairly weak mutts and a strong blast of wind to send Fisher away from the castle.

Blood could be spilt any time. Romance time was running out!

District Five cheered on their tributes like a pack of cheerleaders. The odds were in their favour, but all dreaded to think of what would happen when one of their tributes died. Surely they could not both live when it came down to it, whatever that dastardly Fisher did. For so called cheerleaders they weren't wholly cheerful.

District Four… honestly were a bit unsure how to feel when all was said and done. And let me tell you, children, a lot had already been said and done! Fisher was a bit of a headcase and a half, true, but he was still their last tribute and had battled hard. Maybe harder than he needed. Dexx meant little to them, as anybody could have guessed, but Porter… what was she? What would happen if she won?

Remember, children, she was originally from Four. Would her win go to the District she legally came from… or the one she'd made her true home? Time would tell what the answer would be, or if her tale simply ends in blood and gore. That's always an outcome and never a pleasant one!

The audience watched, hardly able to wait and find out what the answer might be.

* * *

Things came to a clash on the tenth day of the games, and it was the clash of the decade! At least depending on which Hunger Games fan you asked. Some would say Librae's Games had the better finale, others would claim the unlikely girl who stood triumphant in the Fortieth had the better finale, slow as it was. But stats were generally halfway towards somewhat reliable and they showed people enjoyed the end of the Thirty Eighth Games.

Darkness descended much earlier that day and all of the horrors came out to play. The game they wanted to play? Tribute murdering. It was a game that mutts were well adept at, especially when you realised that was their sole reason to exist.

Demonic unicorns that were partly melted and on fire, a tentacled horror that always stuck partly to the shadows, nasty cupid demons with bows and sharp arrows, balloon beasts with fangs and evil eyes and even a few moss men like the one that killed Algae were all unleashed at once.

Porter and Dezz ran helter.

Fisher ran skelter.

The grassy ground shrivelled away until only a horrible mudland remained. Aside the squelchy, slimy, sickly ground that looked like the innards of a septic tank the only other thing laying around were clusters of rocks. It was like somebody replaced all the fairy tales with a muddy toolbox… of death!

Right from the start the battle was pure chaos. Porter kept slipping all over the place, silently landing into a messy heap over and over. Fisher ranted and raved sounds that most would be hard pressed up call an actual language, even Pig Latin. Dezz kept batting Fisher's spear thrusts away with his own spear, struggling to keep himself standing.

Lighting filled the sky! It was all like BOOM BOOYA-KASHA! Fisher was all like 'Die! Die! Die!', all the stress of the Games and the hatred filling his heart from the years in Four prior to all this coming out explosively. Dezz was all like 'Porter, this guy is a total madman!' and then Porter, well, she was silent but the look in her eyes was all like 'really dear? What was your first clue, Sherlock'?

Porter tried to make one powerful lunge towards Fisher with her spear, but the funny thing about mud? It's slippery! She slipped right into his fist, like BAM! It sent Porter fall backwards right upon a rock.

A crack was heard and it wasn't just the bags of crack a few of the gamblers in the Capitol were opening, goodness no. Porter suffered a rather unfortunate spinal injury! She was rocked and then she rolled right down to the base of the mud hill, letting out the saddest near-silent wheeze in pretty much the history of forever.

One look at his wounded bride bought a fire out in Dezz, the valiant guy of some vague status tackling Fisher down hard enough to bust a full rib and a half! But again, mud is slippery! Dezz and Fisher rolled down and down and down to the base of the hill, more dirty and bruised than some awful roadkill that probably smells like feet and pee.

Porter weakly looked up in spite of her rather severe case of agony just in time to see Fisher smash Dezz's head against a rock several times. The third hit was enough, but the sixth crossed into overkill territory. Her husband lay almost dead, no hope left for him! Fisher, you rude bastard, how could you?!

That last part was basically what all of the Porter and Dezz supporters within the Capitol were thinking, by the way.

Porter silently sobbed, writhing in great pain as she lay broken upon the mud. Fisher was pretty battered himself. Much like a fish, in some way or another. Fish or not, Fisher was resilient enough to stagger over to Porter and snarl out contemptuous words of sheer contempt as he readied himself to kill her.

Say it with me now… mud is slippy!

Fisher slipped right over like a fool, almost impaling himself on the way down. Silly as he looked and beaten as he was, he still had one thing over Porter. His back was not busted. Heavy is the crown, children, and it seemed like Fisher was all but certain to wear it in a matter of minutes!

He also wore a rather thick serving of mud across his face, courtesy of the girl laying broken in the muddy mire. Fisher slipped over again and soon it was just like old times for the ex-couple. Plenty of kicking and punching, but with a plot twist! Porter was fighting back and even with her nasty wound she gave it her all! Bam, bam and pow!

The cannon fired as Dezz died, the final marriage of the arena dying with him. Fisher was keen to briefly brag over this between punches, snarling and coughing out all kinds of gross spittle. It was nasty!

Porter was unable to get up or even walk right now, but there was still one thing she could do. Legend tells that it was a secret fighting move passed on from the dawn of time, a finisher that could quell any male in history.

She punched Fisher in the crotch with what little adrenaline she had left.

Fisher fell down in a daze, like he'd had a few pints too many. It gave Porter the chance she needed to drag her broken, pained and in-need-of-a-bath body right on top of Fisher to hold him down against the mud. It was a mud bath to die for… literally!

Fisher eventually stopped twitching and the glorious trumpets sang their song. Porter leaned close to the ear of the dead young man who'd caused her more misery than even the guy who tried to stab and mug her that one time. It was then that the nation finally heard the normally silent girl speak… and oh man, what words they were!

"I'm breaking up with you" she hissed, to the applause of just about everybody. Seriously, you couldn't walk ten paces and not come across somebody cheering!

A few seconds of speaking turned into hours and hours of silent sobbing. Porter stood… err, lay triumphant as the last one standing, but alas, it meant that Dezz could not leave alongside her. They came so close and lost it all. It was a trend that would be seen time and again in the Hunger Games. Just like the trend of victors leaving the arena looking like a broken barbie doll!

It was what a wise man – can't remember his name, so let's just call him Bob – once said. Victory can sometimes feel like failure. Sounds about right, I guess?

* * *

So Dezz ended up dying and Porter was left alone and sad once again. But you know what they say, when life gives you potatoes you make potato salad. Porter just needed to figure out what those potatoes were. Her present was pretty dead, but so too was the last remnant of her past that had persistently hung around like some kind of bad smell, like old gym socks. The future was unclear, but it remained open and in the realm of being possible.

After all, Porter was not dead.

On the other hand, Snow… well, he almost joined the dead at the after-party, so very _almost_! Keen added the poison tablet into the tea undetected. Isobel set up an alibi and stayed away from the general vicinity of Snow, instead spending her evening keeping a careful watch over Porter. The girl was in little state to party.

She did, after all, have to sit in a wheelchair and wear a neck brace for the foreseeable future. Turns out falling back first on a rock is bad for a growing girl's health. Who ever knew?

Bronze was distracted by Crimson and none of the Peacekeeper guards were trained medics. What, or who, could possibly save Snow when he drank the tainted tea?

Well, it would appear Snow was something of a life hacker, children. He kept at least ten antidotes on him at any given time and managed to save himself. Sure, the nasty choking fit left him rather dazed and more than a little alarmed, but the powerful man managed to keep himself on the mortal coil.

Isobel was disappointed, but not ready to give up. It was merely the first attempt and she already had plans for what to do next. She's teach Snow a lesson, and then kill him!

But Snow wasn't about to let that happen, children. Once the lockdown was ended and the party resumed he already had a plan in mind. One that he knew would be the bee's knees!

He beckoned over his trusted Assassin, 'the Grim', and whispered a request to him. He had no proof, only a hunch to go off of, but his hunches had never been wrong before. One nod from his loyal man had him relax right away. What could he have been planning?

If you guessed 'something bad'… what, you want a medal? Anybody could've guessed that one!

* * *

The train ride home to District Five was sombre, full of sheer anxiety and more than a lot of dismay. Why, you may ask? Well, aside the typical grief and pain that most victors would feel – unless they were truly incapable of empathy like the beast of the Forty First Games! – it was at this time the Capitol had done something they were all too known for doing.

Changing the rules, spitting at the Districts and making the shape of an L on their foreheads. Porter may have been spared in part due to the way the nation loved her now utterly broken relationship with Dezz, but she still illegally went from Four to Five.

The answer was obvious on what to do. Be total dicks! Porter was permitted to stay in District Five and was officially added to their victor count, but as the citizenship records at the exacta time of her victory claimed her as a resident of District Four… well, that's where all the riches and parcels would be going. Four was fairly cheerful, Five was pi-MAD and it all but ensured a rather nasty divide was gonna be starting between the Districts and was sure to not end any time soon.

Porter wiped away a tear, a broken flower of a girl, having wanted none of this. She'd only wanted to be happy.

Isobel let out a sigh of her own. She'd only wanted Snow dead.

Crimson silently poured herself a drink, shuddering. She only wanted to be left alone.

If you thought our tale ended here… wrong-a-mundo, children! That night there was a further stoke of carnage and I'm not talking about the one that broke out between exactly twenty three drug gangs in District Six!

The train stopped for refuelling, rather unscheduled. As it remained stationary Porter was wheeled off to bed by Crimson. Both wanted nothing more than to check into the land of dreams and not have to give another damn about their painful lives for at least a few hours.

Isobel, meanwhile, hatched another plan to put into motion next year. It was crazy, but maybe… just maybe… it might work. I mean, the stock market is a risk and that sometimes pays off, so why not this new idea?

Alas, children, nobody would ever know just what Isobel's plan was going to be and how it may have helped the rebels.

The window at the side of the train shattered to bits as a particularly well made bullet whizzed through.

Right into Isobel's head. Ouch, ouch and ouch again! She died before she even knew it, silently collapsing to the ground like how a young girl may drop an unfavoured doll.

The train soon picked up, screams of the two remaining victors of District Five filling the night alongside those of the train staff who had frankly not a faint flicker of an idea what had just happened. It left the area fast, like WHOOSH VROOM! Fast enough to completely miss any traces of the beastly man who calmly set down his particularly sleek and deadly bolt action sniper rifle.

With a dark, brooding voice that almost any aspiring street brute would be proud of he spoke into a transmitter.

'Target eliminated' he said, clear and concise like a total boss… guy. 'She's with the Avox in death."

Legend says that Snow's smirk lasted a full five minutes that night.

And so, our tale comes to its end. Porter, the girl of two districts and one destroyed marriage made it home with a free neck brace souvenir – jealous much? – and Isobel's mentoring, and rebellious rebellion, was given a totally free of charge bullet.

I would say that the moral to this story is honestly quite clear. Always wear a helmet that is at least seventy six percent bullet proof! Oh, and marriages in the Hunger Games usually do not work. Celebrity marriages, they never last do they?

* * *

Katniss and Peeta held their silence for Porter, soon ending it and moving further down the street.

"Well, whatever the story is with her name, good on her for making it out of the arena alive," Katniss said.

Peeta silently nodded as they walked ten paces ahead. Both of them looked at the face imprinted onto the sidewalk, recognition filling their eyes after reading the name beneath it. The boy looked youthful but with a jaded look suggesting him to be wise beyond his years. His thick, fuzzy looking hair was contained within a headscarf.

"Rhyder Overwhill," Peeta read, carefully.

Peeta and Katniss turned to exchange a knowing sort of glance.

"He'd be the son of Baron and Runa," Katniss said, speaking for both of them.

* * *

There we go, Porter Tripp and her rather interesting tale! The world of Panem has certainly moved on a bit in this chapter, what with another victor biting it and the inevitable reactions from that happening. I feel mixed on how it turned out personally. I liked the arcs and twists I came up with, but I kinda felt around halfway through that… eh, the way it was narrated may have been a touch overdone, or possibly made it harder to relate to Porter? Though by that point I was so deep in that I didn't really want to start over, you know? I guess the lesson is that black comedy is a tricky business. Still, I think I did alright giving an identity to one of the most forgotten canon victors. So yeah, that was Porter Tripp, the mute girl of two districts and whom was married within the tribute building. Thanks for reading and I hope you liked this one. Stay tuned for more!

* * *

 **Stats**

 **District 1:** Peridot Gaudy (8th Games), Crystal McCree (14th Games), Bronze Marley (19th Games), Crown Martins (24th Games), Dollar Dettwieller (32nd Games)

 **District 2:** Baron Overwhill (4th Games), Runa Peace (7th Games), Olga Machete (10th Games), Rook Valiant (17th Games), Boulder Atherston (20th Games), Vercingetorix Carnby (25th Games), Dragon Batofel (27th Games)

 **District 3:** Honorius Perthshire (5th Games), Pi Orbit (22nd Games), Beetee Latier (37th Games)

 **District 4:** Museida Selkirk (3rd Games), Mags Flanagan (11th Games), Tide Luther (23rd Games), Librae Ogilvy (35th Games)

 **District 5:** Shunt Gaspar (12th Games), Isobel Sparks (18th Games), Crimson Flanders (29th Games), Porter Tripp (38th Games)

 **District 6:** Chassis Macalister (31st Games)

 **District 7:** Pliny Aransio (2nd Games), Fir Buzz (9th Games), Jack Tylos (21st Games), Snag Nakamura (34th Games)

 **District 8:** Woof Casino (16th Games), Paige Murphy (30th Games)

 **District 9:** Mizar Aldjoy (1st Games), Gwenith Rosebud (13th Games), Teff Withers (28th Games), Laurel Flamsteel (36th Games)

 **District 10:** Stallion March (26th Games)

 **District 11:** Bear Redfoot (15th Games), Seeder Howell (33rd Games)

 **District 12:** Duke Saint-Rose (6th Games)


	40. Rhyder Overwhill

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Hunger Games. They belong to Suzanne Collins.

 **Note:** Almost at the end of the decade! Been a bit of a relative drought of career victors, and D2 victors, for this decade, but that somewhat changes now. It's a fact from canon that victor children get reaped, and it's suspiciously often. But, canon doesn't suggest they never win either. So I figured, why not explore a next-gen victor in the form of the offspring of the first career? Hope you guys enjoy this one. I had fun writing it.

* * *

Katniss and Peeta were silent for a moment, appraising Rhyder's imprinted face upon the ground.

"He must have had quite a legacy on his shoulders," Peeta said, tapping his chin.

"I guess that's one way to put it," Katniss replied, seeming unsure of how to feel. "The son of the first ever career. I'm sure that made him popular."

"Eh… kind of?" Peeta glanced down at Rhyder's face, sympathetic. "Brutus gave the abridged version when we were training with spears. The careers didn't exactly take to him and the outliers hated him. They blamed Baron for the career pack existing year after year. They wanted his son killed."

"I guess we all have a habit of blaming kids for what their elders did," Katniss muttered, her eyes darkening somewhat.

"Yeah, I guess that's human nature," Peeta agreed, shaking his head. "But the thing is, Rhyder was a rarity in District Two."

"How so?" Katniss asked.

Peeta was silent for a moment.

"He didn't volunteer," the boy with the bread explained. "He was reaped."

* * *

 **39th Annual Hunger Games**

 **Name:** Rhyder Overwhill

 **District:** 2

 **Age:** 14

 **Gender:** Male

 **Kills:** 4

* * *

District Two was not having a very good decade.

After their impressive showing in the first three decades of the Hunger Games things had taken a bit of a nosedive in the fourth decade. Eight Games gone by already and not a single victor to show for it. Their tributes always got far, of course, so statistically they were the most well performing District… but nobody cared for that when ranks second through to twenty fourth were all the same thing.

The warlike district hated losing and were getting pretty sick of it. Even Dragon, who had been able to enjoy over ten years of the fame and glory that came with being the latest victor of his district was starting to get annoyed and wish for somebody else to move into the Victor Village with him. He needed somebody to actually pose him any sort of a challenge in chess!

Naturally, Olga was disgusted by the distinct lack of courage and valour that the fallen tributes had shown. She mentored one of them per year and, aside from Boris, had mourned none of them. They'd have the odds in their favour and blew it. Their deaths, and the constant losses Two faced, were their faults.

What happened to Boris was not his fault, she told herself. That freak _accident_ was not his fault.

In the end the only ones in Two of any note who did not care about the losing streak or concern themselves with the Hunger Games in general were Baron and Runa. The first victors of the district had far more pressing concerns these days than how well their district was doing in a kiddie death match or how long it'd be until their next victor.

They had a family now.

Just prior to the first Quarter Quell's finale Runa had given birth to their son, Rhyder. Smart, full of wit, something of a handful and with an awareness of just how cruel the Hunger Games truly were per his parents' teachings he was truly what both considered to be their life's work. Every moment spent with their son was a moment Baron and Runa would treasure for as long as they lived.

However, even as the son of two victors, Rhyder's name was in the reaping bowl. Same as anybody else. The boy, of course, had absolutely no intent to volunteer – why would he do that when he wasn't an idiot and had no need nor desire for fame and riches? – and with a pair of careers eager to go all out and fight every year he had no fear of being reaped. His first two reapings were, if anything, boring.

He mainly just went with the training his parents put him through because he found it fun and thought it bought them all together. He didn't fear what they did. The notion that, when he was a bit older, there might be a rigged reaping and the volunteer mysteriously backing out.

Indeed, our story starts just a week before reaping day with the Overwhill family on a hike around the mountains that filled up their district. Rhyder led the way with his mother easily keeping pace while his father bought up the rear. Normally his Grandma would've joined them, but she'd passed two years ago after hanging onto life for a remarkably long time.

His Grandpa never joins them. But to Rhyder that's just fine and nothing he feels remotely upset about.

He always thought the man was kind of an over serious dick.

"Come on, race you to top!" Rhyder shouted, starting to sprint ahead.

In spite of her worry of Rhyder's third reaping Runa couldn't resist a challenge. She smirked, letting her son start to dash ahead of her as she readied herself to get going.

"Mind if I join the race?" Baron asked, chuckling.

"Sure," Runa said, winking. "Thanks, by the way."

"What for?" Baron replied.

"For volunteering to lose to me," Runa added, teasingly.

Runa was off like a rocket along the mountain trail after that, her muscular legs just as powerful as when she was a teenager at the quarries, if not moreso. Baron charged after her as well, not willing to lose without fighting for the victory first.

Rhyder knew he was fast, but he'd underestimated just how physically adept his parents were even after so many years since their victories. One moment he was in the lead, the next moment his parents had both rocketed past him. Had anybody been there to see it they'd have probably laughed at the way his usually lively eyes practically bulged out of their sockets.

"What the hell?!" he exclaimed, stunned.

"No using the h word!" Runa called back to him, laughing. "Try to keep up, son!"

Rhyder did his best, swiftly leaping across rocks that diverted from the main path in an attempt to take a shortcut. Alas, there was just no way that he could keep up with Baron and Runa. He eventually reached the finish line, wheezing for breath, while his parents sat on a boulder in the heat of a rather playful argument.

"I won," Baron said, smirking.

"No, dear, I won and you know it," Runa replied, crossing her arms and giving an exaggerated huff.

"I think you'll find I won by a nose," Baron stated, starting to lightly laugh.

"Is today opposite day? I thought the Capitol banned that as well," Runa said, smug.

The pair soon shared a fine laugh and leaned in to kiss, the act of which had Rhyder looking away with a gag. He never was the sort of boy who understood the bare minimum of even slightly anything about romance.

As the family of three sat on boulders, watching the distant sunset, Rhyder's eyes trailed to the cliff wall near them. At the top of it was a flat surface, the true peak of the mountain. Before he could even get a word out he'd already been cut off.

"No, that's too dangerous of a climb for you right now. Even I would think twice about doing it," Baron stated.

"I wouldn't," Runa said, crossing one leg over the other.

"You climbed on top of your arena, you hardly count," Baron said, not missing a beat.

"Oh come on, please," Rhyder insisted. "We could, uh, think of it as training? Yeah, that."

Baron was adamant though, claiming that Rhyder was still a bit young for that kind of a massive climb at this point in his life. It was, after all, not even his fourteenth birthday yet.

"Maybe when you're a bit older," Baron assured him. "Now, remember the plan?"

"No volunteering, I know. I'm not crazy dad," Rhyder replied, as if reading from a script. "I'm not that brute who got the spot. Bastion, I think?"

"Just making sure," Baron said, trying to relax and enjoy the sunset with his family.

This was all too common for the Overwhill family. A nice family day out, happy memories made… but even with their lack of care about the Games, there was always that nagging fear that Rhyder would end up going down the same deadly path his parents walked. It wouldn't be able to go away forever, not until Rhyder's final reaping came and went. Until then they could only hope for the best.

That, and make the most of every single day they had together. Baron and Runa had survived the arenas they were both respectively in over the twenty three opponents they'd been forced alongside and weren't going to give up the tentative peace they had earned without a seriously good fight.

Runa felt mostly fine about this reaping. Rumour had it the boy the Overwhill Academy picked out, Bastion, was an even bigger monster than Sword of her own Games. Though unable to suppress a shudder at the thought of the vile boy, the first rapist the Games had ever seen, it seemed the male slot had been officially claimed.

Baron was less certain. Sure, logically his wife was probably right – she did, after all, have her late Grandpa's level headed wisdom – but he just couldn't feel secure for Rhyder's first few reapings like she mostly did.

Not when Olga had such an influence over the generations of children in Two and voiced a dislike of the pair of victors who came before her.

Not when his damn old dad was still in charge of the Overwhill Academy, very old but as cruel as he ever was.

* * *

Elias Overwhill was having a bad day.

The District was getting increasingly annoyed at the losing streak they had been going on as of late and who better to blame than the man in charge of the academy that turned teenagers into bloodthirsty warriors? Apparently not the tributes who killed them or the gamemakers that set off the traps…

He pinched the bridge of his wrinkled nose, knocking back a mild beer in a shot glass. How was any of this his fault? If anything, it was because of him they'd gotten here to begin with. He fathered the first victor they'd ever gotten!

How was it his fault that idiot punk from Six made the arena collapse?

How was it his fault that one tribute mutated into a beast from the depths of hell?

How was it his fault the whelp from Seven won due to the mass hand grenade explosion?

Elias could only scowl, as filled with hatred and fury at the age of 91 as he was back in his youth as a small time schoolyard bully. He had money, he was known by all… and yet he wasn't respected. In his view money and fame did not matter without people's approval.

If he had another victor then perhaps his troubles would all go away. The latest two tributes chosen looked promising, but then… so had all of those ever since Dragon won over ten years prior. What would it take to get another damn victor.

Just as he was ready to phone up his son and ask him where the hell he and his wife were – they and all the victors of Two were due to attend a banquet with visiting Capitol governors, after all – the TV over at the far side of the room began to emit a beeping sound on and off.

"On screen," Elias said, knowing better than to make the caller wait. "Good evening President."

"Good evening Elias," Snow said, briefly smiling at the elderly warlord. "How's life been since our last transmission?"

"Oh, more or less fine," Elias replied, crossing his arms. "I have hope that my district wins this year. I believe it's been too long since we won."

"Tell that to District Twelve," Snow replied, smirking. "Still, I quite agree. After the attempts on my life throughout the year I'd appreciate a loyal District winning the Games this year."

The two talked pleasantly for a short time, though Elias knew it wasn't what Snow wanted. Still, it felt nice to get things off of his chest to the president of the country. He was one of the few men he figured he could trust these days.

Snow soon laid it all out for Elias. He had a job for one, a job that if fulfilled could easily land him the respect he desired. A seat of power alongside some of Panem's finest and his name etched into assured greatness. A plan that left the possibility of District Two winning still valid.

A plan that meant a male victor would not be happening.

"Hold up, sir… you want me to rig my grandson into this?" Elias frowned, raising an eyebrow.

"Is that a problem?" Snow asked, sounding about as warm as a black hole.

Elias thought of all the vicious arguments between himself and his son Baron. How Baron called him a despicable, disgusting person for the whole academy idea and poisoning the minds of the youth within Two. The beatings when he was a boy.

He thought about how he fired back at Baron's hypocrisy for having volunteered before any other tribute in history. For how he killed eight tributes without mercy. For how he wasted his chance for greatness and chose love over legacy. He thought of how they had not spoken in years unless Elias was calling him to order him towards some kind of an event.

He thought of how Rhyder had sent him crashing over with a tripwire prank.

"No problem at all," Elias replied, calm. "I only wondered why, and how. We have a brute ready to step up already."

"The why is simple. Many victors are showing signs of discontent, of rebellious ideas, of not knowing their place. The message is twofold; their children, if ever they have any, are just as much at risk as anybody else… and that disregard, disdain and disgust for the Capitol and its Games will never go unpunished. Baron and Runa have made it a bit too clear how they feel. The citizens within the Capitol have been asking questions. Having Rhyder in the arena should work as a firm reminder for them to bend the knee."

"Brilliant, sir," Elias said, nodding. "I suppose my part is to get him into the arena?"

"Exactly that. Let the female volunteer do as she wants, it's of no matter to me. She'd be a fine victor," Snow said, pouring himself out a glass of wine. "Just get Rhyder into his role as a tribute. Poison any would-be volunteer, make up new rules, give the chosen boy an even better offer. Whatever works."

Snow paused, taking a deep gulp of his wine. With a final word of how the public would be told that reaping day would be delayed for a month due to arena construction – an obvious cover to give Elias more time to work with – the call ended and all was silent in Elias' office once again.

The old man wasted no time leaving the room and heading off for the banquet. He'd let Baron and Runa stay away. Let them have their evening with their boy while they still could.

He needed to get the banquet over with and start working out how he'd perform the task set for him that would, at last, grant him his deepest desires after so many decades.

A place in legend comes before family, at least to the Headmaster of the Academy.

* * *

By the time reaping day arrives there have been quite a few changes throughout District Two. The countdown to the reaping of the Thirty Ninth Hunger Games has been one twist and frenzy after another through the district of masonry.

The delay in itself had the district all the louder and more aggressive as the weeks snailed by to what they hoped to be a year of victory.

Bastion had withdrawn from the running of being a tribute, tempted with an offer of being a captain amongst the Peacekeepers within the walls of the Capitol that he just couldn't pass up.

Many of the hopeful boys who battled to take his place had ended up falling violently ill. Not fatally, but far too ill to take part in the Hunger Games. The official reason was put down to contaminated meat from District Ten. The real reason, obvious only to those in power, was the boys having their drinks spiked with some nasty chemicals.

Olga had been officially announced as Elias' future successor as the Head of the Academy. Elias did not feel concerned, knowing Olga wouldn't dare try anything to remove him. The Capitol wanted him in power and she would never disobey the government she was essentially the mascot of. Even the events of the Thirty First, Thirty Second and Thirty Fourth Games had not managed to truly shake the trust she had in the Capitol's wisdom.

Time had officially run out to chose a male volunteer. The stage was wide open for anybody to mount, but all of those at the academy had been informed a suitable tribute had been found and to not dare volunteer if they'd not been told they were that boy, lest they lose the Games. Nobody wanted to call the bluff and see how real it was.

Rhyder had his fourteenth birthday and thought it was the best day of his life. Baron and Runa were inclined to agree that it had truly been a day to remember. After all, who didn't love chocolate cake and a movie marathon of The Thirst Activities?

Reaping day, on the other hand, fucking sucked.

The girl who volunteered, Ichibod, was as powerful a warrior as they came, flexing and roaring to the ground. She was not one to be trifled with. Olga eyed her, smirking to herself as she gazed upon who she considered Two's best tribute in years.

The district when deadly silent as the escort – dressed up as a chair, as could be expected – reached into the boys' reaping bowl and took out a paper slip. Baron and Runa silently reached to hold hands, praying for the reaping to spare Rhyder over for another year.

"Rhyder Overwhill!"

The two victors were stunned into a silence of purest horror as Rhyder approached the stage, taking his place beside Ichibod. The girl spared him only a single glance, assuming a volunteer would step up.

…But nobody came.

For the first time in so long there was no male volunteer for District Two, a rarity that would only ever happen one more time many years later, and Rhyder's fate as a tribute was sealed.

Much like Jack from almost twenty years ago it was a soft fix. Rhyder was going to be given a chance, at least for now. Let the reactions be drawn out for bigger pay-off and such.

Snow knew how to make things particularly nasty for the Overwhills.

Baron and Runa knew that their time to shine as mentors and parents had arrived. Fighting back screams, panic and a strong urge to be sick they exchanged a single nod. They knew what to do.

Rhyder knew that somewhere out there the God of Luck hated him. But, he wasn't about to take this lying down. He had several tricks up his sleeve…

* * *

Training was a nightmare.

Rhyder was far more capable than a typical fourteen year old. Thanks to all the training his parents has given him as a precaution for this exact occurrence he was able to keep pace with the older tributes just fine. Ichibod was without a doubt stronger than him, but this didn't bother him too much as he swung around the monkey bars like one of their namesakes.

No, the thing that bothered him was the stares sent his way by all of the other tributes. While hope and love were powerful things, especially when put into a stare, the other tributes were putting something else into their gazes. Especially the outliers.

 _ **Hatred**_.

For the first half of the day he tried to just ignore it and keep himself going through the long, wild work-out as he passed by various training stations to brush up on old skills or pick up a few new ones. But, eventually, the hateful staring was just getting to be a bit much for him. Too much for him to make a quip about being so handsome that people just had to look at him.

The answer he got from the powerful boy from Ten filled him with nothing aside pure dread.

"Your father is the reason that careers exist," the boy said, scowling awfully. "We can't kill him, but you'll do just fine."

The boy from Eleven and the rat faced girl from Seven both agreed, snarling at Rhyder like he were a rodent and they were vicious cats. It seemed all of the outliers shared their opinion. That or they just wanted to stay out of the way and thus offered no help at all.

The careers were no help either. Ichibod had no real opinion and just let her allies from One make the choice on what to do. They both collectively decided that Rhyder would just get all the sponsors that they needed and it was better for them to eliminate him fast. That and they just did not want to have a kid with them.

All alone and with nobody to turn to for help, aside his parents who would be unable to be there for him in the arena, Rhyder was up late that night in a desperate attempt to hold in all of his tears.

He failed.

Runa was there for him, doing her best to calm down her son and provide some kind of reassurance. For the first time in many years, she felt lost. It was possibly to come from a career district and win – Crown was proof of this after all – but it was going to be tough. Far harder than the era of the Games she and her husband had emerged victorious from.

"Focus on what you're good at," Runa told her son. "You're good at so many things. You only need one of them to work. Tributes have done more with less."

It was the worst night of Rhyder's life and for his parents too. Baron was barely stable, blaming himself for the fate that had been forced upon Rhyder. He wanted to mentor him flawlessly, he wanted to go after whoever had set this whole thing up.

But with the eyes of the Capitol upon him he was restricted in much of what he could do, lest one wrong toe out of line send the wrath of the Gamemakers down upon his son. All he and Runa could do was fight the fear, mentor Rhyder just as well as they had parented him and hope beyond hope things would turn out alright.

* * *

Rhyder ended up scoring a nine once training came to an end. This and the sponsors that were all eagerly lining up to give their financial support to the son of two victors gave him some reassurance.

On the other hand he failed to score a single ally and the fact nearly all of the other tributes wanted him dead more than anybody else this year took away any reassurance he'd gotten from his score and left him shaking.

He forced himself to think of what he was best at doing. A skill that he could pull off any time it was needed.

He came up with something.

The interviews were both his easiest hurdle to clear and toughest mountain to climb, so far at least. Sure, the Capitol citizens were eager to see him in a person, and in action within the arena, but the other tributes were all out for his blood and that became clearer by the minute as the night went by.

Even Caesar visibly winced for a moment when the boy from Ten, Hoss, described his desire to tear out Rhyder's innards.

Rhyder watched his interview on a rerun shortly after, watching his past-self talk to Caesar about his interests (holo-games, hiking and pranks) and his plans for the arena (grab the biggest sword from the Cornucopia, probably try to run for the high ground and try to poison people's food). The former was all true, the latter was a load of crap.

Baron and Runa explained that sometimes an interview is not about truth, just misdirection. Feed his many enemies false information and then when he does something they do not expect he'll have bought himself a few seconds of precious time.

Time was exactly what Rhyder did not have enough of. He wanted the final night with his family to be endless, but it seemed to pass impossibly fast. All too soon the Overwhills were saying goodbye – hopefully just goodbye for a week or two – on the roof of the training centre.

"Fight hard," Baron said, desperate.

"Fight smart," Runa said, pleading.

Rhyder responded with a tight, desperate hug.

He was keenly aware of how, once inside the hovercraft, the other twenty three tributes were all looking his way. How many of them had sadism and hatred in their eyes. How even Ichibod clearly had no qualms about killing him if she had to.

He remembered the interviews, flinching most of all at those of the Ones, the boy from Three, the girl from Five, the boy from Six, the girl from Eight and the boy from Ten. Death was ever so likely and the odds of it being quick and painless were a big, fat zero.

But with the right arena, maybe he had a chance…

* * *

The tributes rise and all is dark, smells of fresh soil and the very dimly lit clearing has numerous tunnels leading off.

A few have distant screeches, chitters and creeks coming from down them.

It takes Rhyder until halfway through the countdown to realise what the arena most likely is, though even then he cannot say for certain. All he knows is that the tributes closest to him are eyeing him like he were some kind of a meal.

Rhyder readied himself to make the charge towards the Cornucopia, the tributes beside him preparing to cut him off – and cut him down – on his way there.

The gong rang and Rhyder lunged forwards… and threw himself down, gripping the edge of the launch pedestal and flipping himself one hundred and eighty degrees. He's sprinting off towards one of the many tunnels before his would-be killers realise what he has done.

Tricked them with a fake plan and made them waste time.

Rhyder makes a desperate sprint down the nearest tunnel, Flash from Three chasing him down and preparing to kill him with just his bare hands. As the chase goes by neither keep track of where the Cornucopia is nor focus on any of the distant screams.

They don't have any idea that that the Fours and Fives have engaged in a brutal melee that left all of them dead, nor that the career pack went to work and left all six of the tributes under the age of fifteen, aside Rhyder himself, laying dead like animals in a slaughterhouse.

"Get back here!" Flash roared, disgusted. "Your old man started careers and careers have already killed two of my family members! Your life is a fair trade!"

Rhyder didn't bother replying, instead running to the side of the dirt tunnel and managing to run right up the wall, soon clutching the dirt ceiling and staying out of reach of Flash. The boy from Three stared up at Rhyder, unimpressed as he tried to catch his breath.

"You've got to come down sometime," Flash said.

"Do I?" Rhyder asked, almost innocently. "I've been climbing up stuff for years back home. This is nothing. I can do this for three, maybe four hours."

"I can sit here just as long," Flash said, sitting down to start doing exactly that. "Let's begin."

Without warning Rhyder threw himself down from the ceiling and sent his entire body weight right at Flash's head. In a moment the boy lay moaning and struggling, a concussion already forming. In under a minute he wasn't moving anymore, several punches to his neck being all that Rhyder had to do.

"I'd love to stay and talk," Rhyder began, mainly playing to the cameras. "But I can't linger. Don't want the rest of my fans catching up."

Already tired and feeling like he was about to throw up his entire innards Rhyder jogged off down the tunnel and off into the darkness. He wanted to find the darkest spot of the arena around so he could start crying with nobody to see him doing it.

* * *

The death anthem that year was played on the wristwatches that all of the tributes had been given. The dark tunnels made it impractical to do it any other way.

Most of the budget that would've gone towards a better method instead went towards ensuring nobody could repeat the kick that Chassis' did years earlier and bring the arena crashing down.

Day one in the arena ended with eleven tributes killed. The remaining thirteen had spread out far across the winding dirt tunnels of the arena. Rhyder had found an alcove to hide in, one raised above ground level. The odds of being found by a tribute were pretty low, so he felt safe to try and get some sleep.

He got none whatsoever, hunger and thirst gnawing at his whole body inside and out. It was just as well really, because in the early hours of the second day the mutts were unleashed. When one of them came towards Rhyder, hunger in its beady eyes, it confirmed to him what he had suspected.

The arena was the interior of a massive ant hill.

Rhyder spent the better part of the day fleeing from numerous giant ant mutts that roamed through the tunnels around the arena. Every time he evaded one of them it was only a short matter of time before another one would find him and start the chase all over again.

This and the lack of any sleep, food or water was starting to drive Rhyder's mental health out of the 'safe zone'. By the time the second day ended, and three tributes had been eaten by the any mutts – including the boy from One – he was twitching like somebody who had been given a particularly nasty electrocution.

"Please… please, I need help," he whispered, desperately praying that a camera had seen him.

At long last, a sponsor gift arrived. Snow could prevent it no longer and claimed technical difficulties were why it had been delayed. Baron knew this was a load of shit, but dared not step out of line just yet. He contented himself by watching as a medium sized backpack full of bread, meat and several bottles of waters was dropped down from a hatch within the ceiling, the spoils within quickly stabilising his son's vitals… for now.

Both parents knew that, even with the sponsor funds they had gotten, it would take time to send down gifts to Baron. Ichibod had so such delay. It was hard to look Olga in her smug eyes and not say something that'd get Rhyder killed.

All Rhyder could do was ration his food and explore the ant hill, waiting for inspiration to strike him.

All Baron and Runa could do was watch and hope for the best.

All Elias could do was wait for Rhyder to bite it and gets the payoff for his decades of loyal, fanatical service to the Capitol.

* * *

By the fourth day Rhyder had taken to doing what the Capitolites were calling 'doing the spider'. With his expert climbing and how the dirt tunnels were fairly easy to keep hold of Rhyder had taken to crawling along the ceilings of the tunnels, moving steadily and upside-down much like a spider. More than once he'd crawled right over a patrolling, mindless ant mutt.

Tributes always watched their backs, but they did not always look above themselves. Sword didn't do so in the Seventh Hunger Games when Runa jumped him from above and in this point in time neither did Neev from Eight when Rhyder dropped onto her.

Quick and clean, same as Rhyder's first kill. Tormented and sickened at himself as was, he felt something else within himself.

Relief. Not just for what little food and water Neev had been carrying, but also for how she'd been carrying a shiny knife. One that was easily sharp enough to kill.

Rhyder soon sped on his way, an ant mutt in hot pursuit. Armed or not, he wasn't going to take chances with the terrible mutts roaming through the darkness.

* * *

Days passed slowly, during which Rhyder took down the blind girl from Eleven who had somehow lasted this long on pure luck alone.

The Capitolites assumed he was sick simply due to the smell of blood, something they deemed understandable.

Baron and Runa knew it to be the feeling anybody who commits murder gets – one who possesses any sort of a conscious at least – when they lose their innocence, start losing their own sense of self, start treading past the border between sanity and madness.

"He's lasting longer than I thought," Olga remarked, popping open a bottle of vodka. A gift from a fan, she claimed. "You raised him well. His sacrifice won't ever be forgotten so long as this great country may exist."

Baron and Runa ignored her completely. Olga just shrugged, muttered something about the pair losing the spark they once had and knocked back the drink.

All the while Rhyder shivered as he crawled along the ceiling of another tunnel, aware of how distant tunnels were collapsing to draw the last six tributes together slowly and surely.

* * *

Inspiration finally struck Rhyder when he climbed through a small hole in the ceiling of the tunnel, skipping tons of time and coming out on the next 'floor' of the arena.

"Ant hills… they're full of ants, filled with winding tunnels… they have an entrance and exit at the very top," Rhyder whispered, lightly gasping. "Of course!"

Rhyder's exclamation earned him a terrifying twenty minute chase from an ant mutt, but gave him a plan for how he could win the Games, or at least last a few more days. The only question was… where was the exit? It'd have to be somewhere with actual light and nod just the glowing pebbles that occasionally filled the seemingly endless hallways. A place where a tribute could move through the dim light without fumbling and…

…Of course, he realised.

The Cornucopia. The one place that seemed a bit brighter than anywhere else and where he'd not been around long enough to look upwards.

* * *

It was another day of crawling around the dark ceilings before Rhyder managed to make it towards the horn of plenty, the silver structure lowly gleaming in the dim underground room. It hadn't been an easy journey and he knew it was really luck that he had made it here at all, let alone when nobody else was around.

His only clue was his inner hunch to follow the tunnels marked with more human footsteps than the rest. Surely the tunnels closest to the site of the bloodbath would have more footsteps in them, right?

Right. It was why he'd gotten there first. He worked fast, aware that the other tributes – all of them much bigger than him – could have dashed from any of the dark tunnels at any moment. Tripwires were set in front of each tunnel, practically invisible, and so Rhyder felt he had enough time to take care of his hunger and thirst.

The nation watched, bemused, as Rhyder gorged himself on several bottles of water and three entire loafs of bread. In spite of themselves even Baron and Runa had to faintly smile.

"Life is beautiful!" the boy wailed, tears welling up in his eyes as he ate a thick slice of bread with all the desperation of a starving, cornered rat.

As soon as he swallowed the bread five yells rang out, followed swiftly by five thuds. The tripwires had worked as intended, but now all of the tunnels leading out of the clearing were blocked off by his remaining opponents.

Rarity from One, Ichibod from his own District, Hilda from Seven, Hoss from Ten and Carmine from Twelve. They rose up, dusted themselves up and stared at the smaller boy in the centre of the room.

For a moment there was silent. Then there was shouting, roaring and battle cries as the five charged towards Rhyder. The son of two victors, meanwhile, made a hasty retreat and began to climb up the wall at the side of the clearing.

For a few precious seconds the five other tributes stopped, sizing each other up.

"Kill him first!" Hoss spat. "He might get lucky and get out of here if we go for each other first. Too many people win that way!"

"On it," Rarity said, starting to climb after Hoss in hot pursuit of Rhyder. "Mom and dad aren't here to save you, kid!"

Rhyder responded by kicking down a sprinkle of dirt onto Rarity's face.

"Asshole!" she shouted.

* * *

In the mentorl room Baron and Runa practically bounced on their heels, shouting and pleading for their son to climb. To climb for his life! He was good, sure, but those below him were bigger, stronger and the sheer adrenaline was helping their efforts to catch up to Rhyder. All the while the ant mutts were starting to swarm at the base of the cavernous clearing. Falling would be a death sentence.

"Go! Go! Go!" Runa yelled, pale faced and tears of sheer fear starting to fill her eyes.

Baron recalled how mere weeks ago he'd told Rhyder that cliff wall was too much for him. It seemed like nothing in comparison to the climb he was taking part in now. He prayed that he'd underestimated his son and that he truly had what it took to reach the top.

As the tributes climbed closer to the light above Hoss took the chance to ditch his large backpack of gear, no longer needing any of it aside from the knives in his belt. The backpack fell below, both lightening his own load and smacking Ichibod right in the face. She fell, screaming for her mother as the ants devoured her.

Olga pounded the desk of her own mentoring station with her fist, seething.

"Outlier scum!" she shouted, pouring herself another drink. "This was our year!"

"It still might be," Baron said, barely above a whisper. "Rhyder can still win this."

Olga never cared for Baron or Runa and especially not their son. She'd never forgiven the time he made her slip over a banana peel of all things. But, her loyalty was to the Capitol and towards Two. If he won, as far as she was concerned they all won. She'd support him.

But she sure as hell was not gonna cheer him on.

* * *

Terror was all that filled Rhyder's mind as he desperately clawed at the dirt wall, hauling himself further to the daylight above.

All it would take was a Gamemaker trigged trap to make him fall. One push of a button.

"Come on, please," whispered the boy as he made his way ever higher.

He dared not look down. Not when Hoss and Rarity were so close nor at Carmine further below and his most likely vicious glare. Especially not Hilda and how he face was covered in the blood of someone, or something, else.

He remained all the more committed to his resolve to not look down when he heard the sound of a despairing scream, a thud and Carmine being eaten by the ant mutts. The boom of the cannon caused dust and dirt to fall, though not enough to make any of the last four tributes fall.

For a moment Rhyder wondered if he was going to die of a heart attack instead of falling to the nasty mutts far below.

* * *

Snow watched the finale of the Games from the privacy of his personal office. The only one who was with him was his mostly silent, incredibly deadly assassin 'The Grim'. The beasty man stood to attention while Snow calmly sipped his wine.

"That's it, _fall_ ," Snow whispered. "You know you want to. You know that you're so very exhausted."

Snow didn't react in the slightest when Hilda fell to her death and became ant food. As soon as the cannon fired he simply called up Paris and ordered her to ensure Rhyder lost, either by making him fall or ensuring the other two were able to reach the top.

As soon as he hung up the phone the dirt wall near Rhyder began to crumble.

* * *

Rhyder yelped and shouted as his hands started to meet thin air. It was only a matter of seconds until he fell to what was sure to be among the most agonising deaths in the history of the Games. He tried his hardest to keep his grip and climb the last few meters, but it was clearly hopeless.

He briefly recalled something his mother had told him.

 _Fight smart._

Rhyder snapped from using his brawn to using his head. He jabbed one of his daggers into the wall, ceasing his inevitable fall. He used the other one for the same purpose a moment later. With his daggers in hand he began to claw his way into the daylight above.

Having been unbothered by the Gamemakers it was no issue for Hoss and Rarity to keep going, almost close enough to grab the smaller boy above them.

* * *

Baron and Runa watched, hardly able to breath as Rhyder hauled himself out onto the outside ground of the anthill. For a square half-mile there was only a simple field of grass, bordered off by thick trees and the force field. Nowhere to run and nowhere to hide.

Baron could hardly watch and Runa felt like she was going to be sick. Nonetheless they forced themselves to watch as Rhyder wheezed, choked and gasped to fill his empty lungs up with precious air.

He didn't have long to fight for his breath before Rarity and Hoss began to haul themselves up as well. With only enough time to get one of them Rhyder acted on instinct alone and threw his dagger right towards Rarity.

The girl from One fell lifelessly, the dagger wedged right between her eyes, as Hoss got onto solid ground and wheezed much like his last opponent was.

For a minute or two the remaining tributes were too worn out to fight, simply breathing deeply and groaning in pain. In that time Baron and Runa did not calm down in the slightest nor think of a single relaxing thought. Their boy had to either kill the fearsome butcher boy or die. Those were his choices.

Olga just let out a rather foul Russian curse word, seeing the outcome as inevitable when seeing the tributes side by side.

"Congratulations Stallion," Olga said, grumbling.

"Thank you kindly," Stallion replied, polite as always.

* * *

Two sponsors were sent in by the capitol citizens at the last moment that was allowed. Stallion's, of course, fell at a much faster pace and soon the butcher had discarded his knife down the ant hill and replaced it with a deadly looking sword. He smirked, giving a few experimental strikes across the air.

Rhyder looked up helplessly as his own parachute fell at a teasingly slow rate. It'd be at least two minutes before it came down.

Hoss charged and Rhyder ran for his life around the grassy field.

* * *

"Come on, just do it," Snow muttered, starting to look very impatient.

All the measures had been taken for the message to be carried out. The message of Rhyder';s death and all it would symbolise. He just needed the butcher to land one hit and that'd be that.

If Hoss failed, well, he knew a certain man in Two who was near retirement as it was. He always had back-up plans, just in case. He merely hoped to not have to use them, having zero tolerance for failure.

He relaxed, smirking as Hoss slashed his sword across Rhyder's back. Not particularly deep, but it was a very good start.

* * *

"How's that feel?" Hoss spat. "Feel that? That's for the first kid you careers killed! There's plenty more where that came from! How many kids did your career system kill now, huh? A few hundred? You better believe this is gonna hurt!"

Rhyder responded by throwing his dagger as best as he could. It struck Hoss in the shoulder – painful, but not lethal – and the butcher boy howled, but did not slow down particularly much. He didn't even pause to yank it back out.

The parachute was falling closer to the ground… right down towards the hole that led back into the ant hill. A few moments longer and his sponsor would be lost.

Rhyder put all his remaining energy into a desperate sprint towards the parachute.

* * *

Baron and Runa were frozen like statues, staring helplessly as their son ran for the parachute with Hoss not far behind him. It was all or nothing. The cameras delighted in showing how bloodsoaked the back of his tribute shirt was.

Rhyder reached the hole.

Rhyder made a final leap.

Rhyder took hold of the parachute.

Rhyder reached solid ground, only just.

Hoss closed in with his sword, ready to land the kill on their unarmed son. Before either parent could scream it became apparent what Rhyder's sponsor gift had been.

A shield, one made the perfect size for him and forged out of titanium.

* * *

Rhyder grunted, his back feeling on fire and the rest of him not much better than that. He wanted to throw up. He wanted the pain to just end already. He was starting to not care anymore.

Why did people in his district and in others willingly subject themselves to this torture? For fame and fortune? His parents had always been right, this was absolutely barbaric.

"Just die already!" Hoss screamed. "Die like those little kids your kind butchered!"

Clangs rang out on every television set across the nation, sparks flying as the blade hit the shield over and over again. It was exciting, but surely Rhyder would tire out before Hoss did, wouldn't he? After that the outcome would be obvious.

Hoss didn't know Rhyder's plan, but people in the audience started to slowly catch on to Rhyder's final gamble. Whether or not he'd stay conscious enough to make it work remained to be seen.

* * *

"…Shit. No, no, no," Snow muttered, his voice dark and his grip on his wine glass hard enough to cause a crack to form.

"Hope you're not hemophobic! There's gonna be blood!" Hoss screeched.

Rhyder was close to passing out from exhaustion, true. It wouldn't be five minutes now until it happened and his plan worked out.

But Rhyder was gradually pushing Hoss backwards withy every defected strike, inch by inch. Hoss didn't react to this, knowing the forcefield was far away. He was entirely correct about this.

But the hole that led to the ants below was ever so close behind him. The large, aggressive boy was less than a foot away from it and was so caught up in combat he had no idea.

"No, get away from that hole!" Snow shouted.

Clang! Another two inches back. It dawned on Snow just how badly he'd misjudged this plan of his. How he'd not realised just how good at climbing the damn kid was.

As he seethed, still hoping for a possible victory to his plan, Caesar Flickerman was providing excited and frantic commentary of the action going on. The young man may have his own private reservations at times over some arena content, but he was on top of his game with narrating this battle.

"Hemophobic? I hope Hoss isn't claustrophobic!" Caesar yelled, giddier than a kid on Capitolmas. "There are ants down there! It's dark! It's gloomy! And… you're going down!"

With one final deflection of the blade Rhyder used his final energy to thrust his shield forwards right into Hoss' chest. The boy stumbled lightly backwards… and his foot met thin air. With a shout of sudden panic and terror he fell like a brick down into the dark ant hill below. His cannon fired not long after that.

"…Fuck," Snow muttered, sighing.

"Want me to deal with Elias?" The Grim asked, courteous as always.

"I'd say so, yes," Snow agreed. "But let me give him a call first."

"Understood," The Grim replied, giving one slow nod.

* * *

Baron and Runa burst into tears. Tears of complete joy and relief. Against all the odds their son had managed to win the Games. It was luck, it was skill… it was a miracle.

They didn't stick around as the other victors from Two celebrated their newest victor after so long. They dashed off like rockets to the medical bay, ready to wait for their son and see him the instant he was returned from the arena.

Ogla took one look at the screen where Rhyder dropped to his knees and collapsed onto his side, utterly worn out. She never liked the boy, but… a victor was still a victor and it had been too long since their last one.

"I take back what I said Stallion," Olga stated. "Better luck next year."

"Thank you kindly," Stallion said, lightly sighing as the feeling of another defeat filled him up.

* * *

District Two were, of course, glad to have another victor after so long. Having not known of any of the behind the scenes scheming and politics they had no reason not to cheer over being victorious. They had no issues with the son of their first and second victors coming home as the champion. Even Ichibod's family were glad that, at the very least, their district won and the one who actually killed their daughter had not made it back to his own family.

As was the case from before the Games it was a time of great change for District Two. The new victor they had claimed had more kids than before signing up to be careers and possible tributes. It had more money being spent on defences and weapons. It pushed all the traditional masonry work off to the side more than ever.

One of the biggest changes was experience by Elias Overwhill himself. He'd served the Capitol for numerous years, sacrificed friends and even family to help them, impress them and earn favours over the decades.

He was told in one phone call that he was to be written out of history. He would be an unperson for his failure. He would die and be forgotten, recalled only as either deja-vu of somebody else or simply discarded as a bad dream. His one failure invalidated his entire life of fascism and brutality.

He had five minutes to stew on this in despair before The Grim paid him a visit, claiming both his life and his uneaten steak dinner with his trusty knife.

His replacement was put into power right away, as if he'd never even left. Olga Machete was sworn in as the Headmistress of Overwhill Academy, vowing to serve the Capitol, train the future generations to be loyal warriors and, a promise to her homeland, to being many more victors sooner than later. They couldn't win every year, but they could keep the gaps between wins as narrow as possible.

Overwhill Academy soon got a new name that it would be known as for many, many years yet to come.

Machete High.

* * *

Far away from Murder High and anything to do with the Games a family of three worked as a team to climb their way up a rather tall, dangerous cliff face. For many it would be suicide to even try making their way to the halfway mark, let alone the top.

For the Overwhills it was just another family day out. They all made it to the top and sat together at the edge of the peak, legs dangling over the side as they gazed out towards the beautiful sunset lowering on the far away horizon.

Time passes as they gazed out, silently.

"Dad?" Rhyder eventually asked.

"Yes?" Baron replied.

"…Does the pain ever go away?" Rhyder asked, quietly. "The guilt… the memories… wishing I'd not had to kill anybody to make it home?"

Runa gently held her son close to herself while Baron took a deep, quiet breath.

"No son. It doesn't even go away, at least not entirely," Baron replied, shaking his head. "But…"

"But what?" Rhyder asked.

"What your father is trying to say is that… when you are with family, with people you love and trust… it gets easier," Runa said. "When your dad won his Games he had his mother. When I won my Games I had Grandpa and your dad. Together… it's easier."

"Exactly," Baron moved closer to join the group hug. "It's easier with family."

Rhyder smiled, content for at least the current moment in time as he and his parents continued looking out at the sunset. Maybe he'd feel awful in a day, an hour or even a minute… but for now he felt ok.

He'd do his parents proud and continue to speak out against the vile Games for as long as he lived, no matter the cost. Even if the other districts did not believe him, what with the reputation the Twos had, he'd do all he could to stick it to the Capitol.

A water bucket above Snow's office sounded like a good place to start.

* * *

A moment of silence passed before Katniss and Peeta continued their walk down the street.

"Well, I don't know the guy, but I'm glad at least one victor child managed to make it out of the arena," Katniss said, glancing off to the side.

"As am I," Peeta agreed.

The couple stopped a few paces later and looked down at the fortieth face imprinted in the Walk of Victors. Glancing back at them with an anxious, flustered expression was a very freckly looking girl with fairly full, chubby cheeks and long hair that went past her shoulders. Her eyes were wide and the sort to never look anybody in the eyes.

"Lammy Phyronix," Katniss read, curious.

* * *

There we go, that was the tale of Rhyder! I think that the son of two victors ended up working out quite well? Just made sense to me that in context he'd be the target of so many within the arena and, well, from there one thing led to another and things just pieced themselves together really well without me needing to really plan out a huge amount. I feel really satisfied with this one, but as always you be the judge, jury and executioner and let me know what you think. I take all feedback on board. Until next time, stay tuned for the last victor of the fourth decade of the Hunger Games!

* * *

 **Stats**

 **District 1:** Peridot Gaudy (8th Games), Crystal McCree (14th Games), Bronze Marley (19th Games), Crown Martins (24th Games), Dollar Dettwieller (32nd Games)

 **District 2:** Baron Overwhill (4th Games), Runa Peace (7th Games), Olga Machete (10th Games), Rook Valiant (17th Games), Boulder Atherston (20th Games), Vercingetorix Carnby (25th Games), Dragon Batofel (27th Games), Rhyder Overwhill (39th Games)

 **District 3:** Honorius Perthshire (5th Games), Pi Orbit (22nd Games), Beetee Latier (37th Games)

 **District 4:** Museida Selkirk (3rd Games), Mags Flanagan (11th Games), Tide Luther (23rd Games), Librae Ogilvy (35th Games)

 **District 5:** Shunt Gaspar (12th Games), Isobel Sparks (18th Games), Crimson Flanders (29th Games), Porter Tripp (38th Games)

 **District 6:** Chassis Macalister (31st Games)

 **District 7:** Pliny Aransio (2nd Games), Fir Buzz (9th Games), Jack Tylos (21st Games), Snag Nakamura (34th Games)

 **District 8:** Woof Casino (16th Games), Paige Murphy (30th Games)

 **District 9:** Mizar Aldjoy (1st Games), Gwenith Rosebud (13th Games), Teff Withers (28th Games), Laurel Flamsteel (36th Games)

 **District 10:** Stallion March (26th Games)

 **District 11:** Bear Redfoot (15th Games), Seeder Howell (33rd Games)

 **District 12:** Duke Saint-Rose (6th Games)


	41. Lammy Phyronix

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Hunger Games. They belong to Suzanne Collins.

 **Note:** Here we are, the end of another decade of the brutal Hunger Games. That makes another two hundred and thirty dead children. I guess it's a poor age for the Districts, but a fine age for the funeral businesses? In any case, this is a character that might remember if you read the SYOT fic 'The Youngest Among Us' written by Professor R.J Lupin1. Lammy's a character I feel attached to and once I had the idea for this special chapter format… well, she suited it perfectly. Read on and hopefully at least slightly enjoy!

* * *

"She doesn't look like the toughest of girls," Katniss said, mostly to herself. "But still… all those kills."

"She must have been another who was stronger than she seemed to be," Peeta said, looking down at Lammy's imprinted face. "You can see in her cheeks that she's better fed than most people in Ten. Rich girl maybe?"

"Might be," Katniss replied. "That or an expert thief who stole from every food store near her."

After a moment Katniss faintly chuckled.

"Yeah, you're right, she must have been rich," Katniss added.

The pair went silent, paying their respects to the heavyset girl from Ten of decades prior. A girl who had more in common with Katniss than the Mockingjay realised.

* * *

 **40** **th** **Annual Hunger Games**

 **Name:** Lammy Phyronix

 **Gender:** Female

 **District:** 10

 **Age:** 14

 **Kills:** 6

* * *

 **Hare Townsend, 16 years old – District Ten Male of the 40** **th** **Hunger Games**

 **Second Day of Training - 11:40**

I feel glad, far from the first time, that the careers have ignored me completely. They seem more willing to focus on my district partner.

I watch them from across the training centre while waiting behind the starving kid from Six at the shelter build station. It's kind of impossible not to notice the careers when they're talking down to somebody else.

I'd normally step in, honest, but in the Hunger Games things are different… I'm starting to see why Stallion told us that 'everybody secretly likes it when conflicts break out which do not involve them'. It means we'll live a little longer.

The boy from Six leaves, allowing me the chance to start brushing up on shelter building. It's pretty simple stuff when you get the basics down. Simple enough for me to work without issue while watching the career pack.

Just my luck I got reaped in a year where the pack has six members. Last year was better with how they only had three people. Alas, two burly bastards from Four volunteered. Guess it's just one of those years.

I try not to show much emotion, but it's hard not to flinch from the way they all crowd around Lammy. She had tried to move unseen from the edible plants station over to the camouflage station, but they saw her a mile away.

The unfortunate fact is that it's easy to see why they zeroed in on Lammy from the start. A younger tribute, check. Started crying like a baby at the reaping, check. Fairly overweight, check.

I'm not sure why I watch. It's not as if I can do anything for her when only one of us gets out of here. It has to be me, it just has to.

There's no fighting permitted in here, so said the man in charge of training, but apparently shoving Lammy onto her butt and mocking her is just fine and dandy. Apparently she's the daughter of a really famous trapper, Jerry Phyronix, but she's not displayed any of his well-known courage or skills.

She's just started crying again for one thing.

"Hey look! Somebody replaced the female tribute from Ten with one of their fat pigs!" says the boy from One, laughing his ass off. He's the worst of the lot.

"I want to slice myself some ham. Maybe make a sandwich," the girl from Two adds, laughing. She ain't much better.

The girl from One just makes oinking sounds and soon the whole career pack is laughing at Lammy. They keep laughing and pointing as she stumbles and awkwardly jogs away to hide in one of the artificial bushes at some training station nobody is using.

I guess if District Ten is getting another victor it's all up to me this year. Stallion can only save one of us and he's hedged his bets on me. I think he knows that Lammy's too soft to make it, even if she does somehow manage to escape the careers when that gong rings. What can she really do? I know Gwenith won all those years ago with a score of two, but she had allies. Lammy doesn't.

If anything, she's avoided talking to anybody. She barely mumbles a few words to me at breakfast time as it is.

"Move over, I want a turn," says the girl from Three behind me.

"Right, right, I'm moving," I say, getting up and leaving her to it.

The training days pass pretty quick. Yesterday was a blur and today has been going far too fast. Before long it's lunch time, the one time I really have a chance to just sit and think. As I eat my meal I catch sight of Lammy off in a corner all by herself. Her flaming red hair is unmissable, after all. Sticks out like a boar among pigs.

I can't help wondering if she has some kind of a stress eating thing going on. All that food she's quickly going through can't be normal, can it?

I cast away thoughts of my district partner. I can't let myself get soft; I have to be tough and able to kill if I'm gonna get home to Ma and Pa. There's no place for Lammy in my plans.

I shake my head one last time as the boy from One throws a handful of mash potatoes over at Lammy, jeering at her to eat it. She closes her eyes and covers her face, about ready to burst into tears.

"Leave me alone!" she wails, her voice cracking into a squeak.

The pack, of course, just have a good laugh over this. I don't miss how one or two others around the canteen do the same, though a bit more discreetly. Shameful, the lot of them.

Soon enough the bell rings and it's back to training for us. Nobody pays me any mind as I bring up the rear of the crowd.

Lammy can't say the same. The pack all chase after her, calling it practise for the main event in just a few days. Lammy sobs, running away like a scared animal up for the slaughter and off to hide in the same fake bush as earlier.

One tribute from Ten is surely gonna die in the first few minutes and it won't be me.

* * *

 **Coast Trenton, 16 years old – District Four Female of the 40** **th** **Hunger Games**

 **22** **nd** **Day of the Games. Arena Time – 13:43**

My feet are killing me.

Past Hunger Games have lasted a long time, sure, but it's so rare for them to go on this long. Not that many of the cannon fodder were all that tough this year. I'd figured after I managed to slit the boy from Ten's throat thirty seconds in this was going to be a hop, swim and a dive to the good life. A week at most.

But here we are past the three week mark and I'm starting to think we're going around in circles.

By now the massive rocky mountain range they put us in this year has become just as familiar and second nature to me as my neighbourhood back home in Four. We've been here so long that, sometimes, memories of the outside world are getting fuzzy.

I wonder if Grandpa is watching me now, tapping his watch impatiently.

The arena is honestly not that bad this year. Beautiful orange sunrises and pink sunsets, formidable cliffs and high peaks, a lovely refreshing stream that cascades from the peaks and down through the valley… this and the soft breeze make it fine arena. Especially when we could've gotten a sewer like that fucking hellhole the Twenty Sixth Games took place in.

It would be great if it wasn't for one little problem that we've been unable to take care of.

No, not little. A fat problem!

The last tribute we killed was the boy from Seven three days ago – that boy fought like a fucking psycho – and since then it's been down to seven tributes. Before then we managed to find and kill them one by one after the six death bloodbath. All except this last one.

The girl from Ten. I have no idea how she's been doing it, but she's still alive and we've not seen her ever since she ran away as soon as the gong rang.

The Gamemakers haven't drawn her in closer to us, so we've been marching around in hopes of finding any sign of her. We just have to find her and she'll be dead, easy as that. But that's just it.

We can't find her!

"Guys, this is hopeless," my district partner Halibut grumbles, always in a bad mood. "We should stop for a bit. Maybe split up?"

"No, we stick together," Candy from one says. That girl's been getting a bit big for her boots if you ask me. "We'll keep moving around and we will find her eventually. A cannon might even go any second now."

No such luck. The six of us are gonna be here another week at this rate. Maybe even crack the thirty day milestone. I assumed it'd be impossible for that to happen, but now I'm not so sure.

Halibut and Candy bicker for a while, myself and Spitfire from Two backing up Halibut and both Hermes from Two and Triumph from One backing up Candy. The impasse wastes another ten minutes before we end up on the move once more. At least the ground ahead is one of the few grassy fields the mountain valley has.

"So, where are we going?" I ask, moving in front of the others. "That fat pig could be anywhere. We need a plan. A planned route."

Spitfire seems like she's about to speak up, right before a crack fills the air. One moment I feel weightless and the next… no, no, no, nonononon NONONONONO!

The pain, it's everywhere… I can't breathe… the blood is pouring like a river… it hurts… wooden spikes… my guts… I never even…

* * *

 **Triumph Washington, 18 years old – District One Male of the 40** **th** **Hunger Games**

 **22** **nd** **Day of the Games. Arena Time: 18:28**

Ever since Coast fell down that pit and got skewered on a few dozen wooden spikes the rest of the pack has been on edge. They go on and on, whining over it being a freak accident, wondering who did such a thing and if there are anymore of those pits around.

It's made our already slow progress even slower.

Sure, I play the part and act like I'm just as on edge as the others… but on the inside? I'm practically dancing! Whoever dug the trap is long dead and besides, Coast scored a nine so who cares if she got killed before we expected it? It was the best for all of us, especially me. One less person to worry about when the pack breaks after we kill that fat little pig.

Speaking of that fat lamb, I can't wait to dig my sword into her gut and watch whatever's stuffed in there come flooding out. It's gonna be beautiful. I'll admit, the thought has me feeling hot. I just hope the rest don't beat me to the kill or that Ten gets herself killed like a fucking idiot while we're miles away.

I mean, no shock if she does, but it'd be a waste of all the trash talking back in the training centre. I can see it now; her screams, her begging, the blood, the gore… beautiful!

"We gonna set up camp?" Spitfire asks. "It's gonna be dark soon."

"Fuck that," I say, shaking my head. "For all we know she may be just ahead past the trees. We can keep going another half hour."

Naturally, the others agree with me – I mean, why wouldn't they? – and let me lead the way forwards. They know their places: firmly behind me and, before long, beneath me.

Six feet beneath me.

We've passed this place a few times already. A small grove at the base of a mighty cliff where a few trees grow here and there. No idea what kind of trees, just that they're covered in lots of tree sap and grow nothing useful like, I dunno, fruit. Past here is the river and beyond that the cornucopia.

I find it hard to keep calm as we move along, but I'm just so restless and excited! It's been too long since I last killed a tribute and heard those sweet, sweet screams. Once we find Ten I'm gonna make her wish she was never born, right before I f-WHOA!

I'm not sure what it is that I trip on. I just know my ankle hurts like shit, though it's nothing my sponsors can't fix. Worse yet, I fell face first into a sap covered tree. I bet the audience must be having a good laugh over this. My piece of shit allies sure are. Whatever, I'll get free and…

…Shit.

I'm stuck. The tree sap is like some kind of glue, keeping me firmly stuck in place like a man in a set of stocks. I can't see anything aside the golden glaze of the sap. I remain calm at first, knowing that panicking could make it worse. The chuckles of my allies piss me off, but I don't care. I'll kill them later.

My lungs hurt. I can't breath! My mouth and nose are stuck too, filled up with sap! No, no, no! I scream, all my shouts muffled into near silence. I hear the others trying to work out how they're gonna free me, but I don't have that kind of time! It hurts! My lungs burn!

I feel tears mixing in with the sap around my eyes. Get me out of here! I don't want to die like this, anything but suffocation by tree sap! No, no, no, no, no!

I dig my feet into the ground, the world going fuzzy and my head getting horribly light. One good tug should do it and then it's back to business. Freeing myself might even get me a sponsor gift. I get my hands in place, ready to force myself back.

It hurts so much! It's so fucking hard to think…

On three I'll pull back. One… two… three!

I fall to the ground, my face on fire and red covering everything. A shrill roar fills the evening and suddenly everybody else is screaming. It hurts… it hurts… save me…!

Everything fades except the pain. The last thing I see between all the blood and the tears is my face still stuck to the tree sap…

* * *

 **Spitfire Li, 18 years old – District Two Female of the 40** **th** **Hunger Games**

 **23** **rd** **Day of the Games – Arena Time: 12:07**

Everybody had nightmares after what happened to Triumph. Dying by ripping his own face off after near suffocation… shit, what a terrible way to go.

Makes the fact I was gonna gut him when the pack breaks seem tame in comparison.

Being two allies down while that ginger girl continues to evade us is one thing, but we may have a new problem to watch out for. Hermes checked the area that Triumph tripped on and found the cause almost instantly.

A small pothole. Deliberately dug, ankle deep and really hard to see if you weren't looking right at it.

A trap.

We've all been careful with where we step ever since then. No more potholes have been sighted away from those sap covered trees, but it pays to be careful. Nobody wants to end up like Trimph.

If I do, and obviously die, how am I gonna bring my family into the big leagues of Two? They're counting on me and I'm not letting them down, fuck that!

We've walked by the stream for a while, keeping an eye out for the girl from Ten. I never expected her to be so hard to catch, or even spot to begin with. It's as if she's turned herself invisible or something.

I shake my head and spit in the stream, disgusted. She only scored a four, how has she been keeping herself alive for so long? Where is she hiding?

"Careful," Hermes says from his spot at the front of the pack. "This is where the valley gets really steep. We should go the long way around."

I'd hate to give that ginger more time to run from us, but Hermes is right. The water flows a few paces ahead then then goes violently downwards to rocks and rough water below. About the only place in the arena where the water is anything besides gentle.

"Sure, let's do it your way," Halibut says, shrugging. "She's clearly not here anyway. Cornucopia anyone?"

We all agree to this, especially Candy. She ran out of arrows last night when the Gamemakers sent a lone wolf to go after us. Guess they were bored or something. It put up no fight, but Candy's last two arrows broke when they hit the beast. It must have had one ridiculously tough hide, though not tough enough to survive my rapier.

The easiest way down is surprisingly nearby. Just some tall grass and then a few rocky steps leading to a trail further down the mountain. I glance back at Hermes as we walk along.

"So, when we find her, who gets the kill?" I ask. "Because it's been over a week since I slit the Eight boy's throat and-FUCK! AAARRRRGH!"

It's like my ankle was dipped in a cauldron of molten metal. I scream and shout, probably loud enough to be heard across the arena. I'd call out a threat to that ginger girl if I didn't have a bigger problem to deal with.

Closed around my right ankle is a bear trap. An actual wooden bear trap with jagged teeth digging into my ankle, down to the bone. It's hell. It hurts!

I hope around like a madwoman, screaming for somebody to get the damn thing off of me. Halibut doesn't do a thing, just giving me a blank look. Candy hesitates, but starts to move over like a good ally should.

Hermes makes an actual effort. The blood is everywhere but he comes right to my aid, trying to make a grab for me. I can't keep still, the pain making it impossible. Between my screams he says something, but I don't catch what it is. Is he reminding me of something Headmistress Olga told us? Not the right time, not when _my ankle is in a_ _ **bear trap**_!

Hermes lunges for me, missing as I finally topple over. I'm left screaming when, rather than a thud onto the grass, I'm overwhelmed by freezing water. My scream comes out bubbled, water filling up lungs in the seconds before I come up for air.

"Spitfire! No!"

My gut lurches as I freefall. My lungs burn from both the water and my own mortal fear.

"MAMA!"

Everything explodes into a hellish flame as a sharp rock protrudes through my back and out my guts. It's impossible to describe the pain. No, no…. no… please no… I barely get to choke out a few drops of blood before…

* * *

 **Candy Spicer, 16 years old – District One Female of the 40** **th** **Hunger Games**

 **23** **rd** **Day of the Games – Arena Time: 20:15**

The three of us are all miserable when we finally arrive back at the cornucopia. I don't know about the boys, but now I'm getting pretty freaked out. The paranoia is really getting to me… what if another bear trap is just a few inches from my toes? What if another pothole is just a step away?

I try not to puke at the thought of how Triumph died. I come about halfway to succeeding, but the boys don't say anything about it. They're just as upset as I am. Wordlessly, Halibut lights a fire and we sit around it in a triangle formation. The fire warms us up, but it doesn't take away the cold stress in our expressions.

This is fucked up. Three of us dead and Ten – I forgot her name – is _still_ out there, probably asleep and a total sitting duck.

"So, what do we do now?" Hermes asked, stabbing his sword into the dirt.

"Stay here and hope the Gamemakers just drive the piglet towards us?" Halibut says, shrugging.

Rain lightly begins to fall. I take it as a sign that no such thing will be happening, and that we better get back to hunting after a good rest. We should set up the tarps, but I'm too tired to bother with it. Seems the boys are too.

The silence lasts for ten minutes. Time spent doing absolutely nothing. Seems like it'd enough for Hermes to let out a growl of annoyance.

"Ok, look, we're clearly missing something here," Hermes says, pounding his fist to the ground. "We've been all over the arena dozens of times, maybe more. Now these traps are popping up as well and three of us have died. All the while Lammy is still walking around, closer to the win by doing nothing. Can you imagine how our names will go down if _she_ of all tributes outlives us?"

Lammy, that's her name. I'd entirely forgotten it after around the two hundredth time I call her a pig. Piggie always suited her better anyway.

"Was anybody at the trap setting station?" Hermes continues.

"I saw the boy from Five there," Halibut says. "He was, like, the fourth or fifth to die. This isn't his work."

"Well, who then?" Hermes asks, fuming.

I'm not sure how much time passes, my eyes growing heavier by the second, until I recall something. It's so vague, so distant… but I recall something from the interviews… something hazy, half-formed but still a fact that stuck out.

"Jerry Phyronix," I say, sitting up.

"Who the fuck is that?" Hermes asks, his eyes narrowed. "What, is one of the other boys still alive? Did a cannon misfire or something? Bugger me!"

"No, it's somebody else," Halibut says, sitting up too. "I have a good memory. None of the fodder boys were named Jerry."

"So who was it then?" Hermes asks, dull. "Or is this just a waste of time?"

"I… I remember the name from the interviews. I think he was a famous trapper," I say, shrugging. "I just can't remember what that has to do with all of this. He's not in here right now, he's over in…"

Oh.

Oh fuck.

"What? Where is he?" Halibut asks.

"…District Ten," I stand up as I whisper, everything coming together. "Shit! Shit, shit, shit!"

"Calm down Candy. Deep breathes and then tell us what's going on here," Hermes tells me, firm as per always.

So I do. I tell them what little I recall, of how Jerry Phyronix is a very well known and surprisingly rich trapper from District Ten. Makes a living out of catching mutts left over from the Dark Days and selling their pelts. Same for normal beasts like grizzly bears. Beyond that it becomes fuzzy, the only other thing I know being that Crystal once bought one of his pelts for a gift for her girlfriend Harp.

Halibut clearly knows more. The way his eyes widen and a nasty sailor swear exits his mouth are hard signs to miss.

"Out with it!" Hermes barks, almost desperate.

"The girl we've been failing to hunt down for days now, Lammy? …Her surname is Phyronix," Halibut groans, a hand to his head. "She's Jerry's daughter, she knows all of his tricks! Those traps? Hers! Her ability to evade us? She knows all about hunting and what to do! She… fuck!"

"She what?" Hermes yells.

"She fucked with us!" Halibut shouts. I spot the fear in his eyes.

It's just like the fear in mine as he tells me what I dread to hear. Lammy played us… she played up the coward angle to ensure none of us would see her as a threat. Not worth chasing after when she ran off on day one.

She didn't need a thing from the cornucopia to survive.

We must be babbling and shouting for twenty minutes before we finally calm down, if only to stop our throats getting anymore sore than they already are. It's decided what we have to do. No careless mistakes, no chances taken, no more underestimating our opponents.

If we'd seen Lammy as a person and not a fat pig then we'd have figured her out sooner.

The boys ask me to get a tarp so we can keep the fire going and the rain off of us. I barely give a grunt as I head into the cornucopia to search for it. The whole place is dark in here, the cloudy sky and late hour making the place way too dark. I fumble for a flashlight, but there's none here.

I swear, if Lammy came by and stole it while we were gone… fucking bitch.

Not just that but I can feel puddles under my feet. Just great, the damn horn of plenty sprung a leak. As if our luck wasn't bad enough already.

"I can't see shit in here!" I yell out to the boys.

"Use a flashlight," Hermes replies.

"It's gone!" I huff.

"Then use a lighter, there's like ten of them in there. Probably," Halibut chimes in.

Useless, both of them. I won't miss them once I win. At least I find the small basket of lighters after another minute of fumbling around. I flick on the lighter-ACK!

The lighter explodes, flames covering my hand. I leap back, waving my hand without a clue what just happened. The lighter hits the floor and that's when it all becomes horribly, terrifyingly clear.

It's not puddles of water nor a leak.

It's gasoline!

I scream, everything becoming hot around me. Everything breath I take burns! Make it stop, make it stop… my hair burns… my skin melts… make it stop… stop… please no fire… stop…

* * *

 **Halibut Simpson, 18 years old – District Four Male of the 40** **th** **Hunger Games**

 **24** **th** **Day of the Games – Arena Time: 10:32**

Hermes and I hike side by side up the steep trail of the mountain, powering through the rain in search of Lammy. She has to be lurking somewhere around here. She can't hide from us forever.

It's been so long that I've forgotten what she even looks like, aside the fiery ginger hair.

I shiver. The word 'fiery' makes me think back to last night. The Cornucopia was caught in an inferno with Candy at the heart of it. Our ally burnt to a crisp with all the supplies that were still in there. The fire is still ongoing… so basically, we're in the shitter. The sponsors sent us a few things, but it's not much to go on.

We move fast, trying to hunt quickly and ignore our paranoia and hunger. I'm not feeling so hot and I know Hermes is the same. He said much the same to me an hour ago, back when we were unsure if we were gonna fight or stick together. In the end the choice was easy. Two of us means twice the odds to stop traps laying around and an extra set of eyes searching for Lammy.

The longer this goes on the harder she'll become to kill. Every hour that passes is another hour she's used to set down more traps. Fuck, they could be anywhere around us.

"Shame our mentors cannot just send us directions to find her," Hermes mutters.

"Tide's got no such privilege I guess," I say, shrugging. "Wait, you mean even Olga… _Olga_ … can't do that?"

"Nope. It's the rules, I guess," Hermes says, sighing. "Whatever, eventually they'll have to send her towards us. You know, by day thirty or forty."

"Maybe lady luck will stop shitting on us and she'll just fall off a cliff in an hour tops," I say, shivering from the morning breeze.

I'm not sure how long we walk along, aimless in our search. Eventually though we start nearing the peak of the mountain. A small forest clusters around here, trees growing tall and numerous fallen leaves coating the ground.

It's suspicious as hell.

"Ok, we'll take it nice and slow," Hermes says, drawing his sword. "No running. Just edge forwards bit by bit."

A good plan overall. I'm quick to agree and follow behind Hermes as we search through the peak forest. For a while there's nothing to make note of, just the gentle chirps of a few harmless looking birds up in the trees.

Traps are sprung, but it's Hermes sword out in front of him that sets them off. Hermes chuckles and I smirk, almost laughing. Finally, a system that works. Things are starting to look up. About time too. I'll be sure to show Lammy exactly how much I appreciated her traps once we find her. I'm nothing like that sick boy Triumph, but I find it hard to feel much aside hate for that girl.

Deep breathes Halibut. In… out… in… out… in… o-

"Aw shit!" Hermes shouts in alarm as he's yanked into air by one leg and left dangling from a higher branch. His sword lands on the ground, clattering harmlessly.

"Hold on, I'll get you down," I start to move underneath him, looking for a way to actually go about doing that.

"I'm fine," he says, yanking a dagger from his belt. "Just a minute."

I back away from him as he cuts at the rope. Ten steps seems pretty safe to me. Once Hermes gets down I think we can-ACK!

Everything is one horribly fast blur, enough to make me feel like I were almost seasick. When I get my bearings I'm upside-down beside Hermes. He gives me an unimpressed look, pausing his rope cutting to cross his arms and sulk at me.

It's kinda funny, really.

"I'll cut myself down and pass the knife up," he says, rolling his eyes. "Just… stay still or something."

I don't disobey, now's not the time for jokes. Hermes is down in moments, landing harmlessly. True to his word he passes the knife to me and I start cutting.

"What do we do after this?" I ask him. "Down the mountain again? Maybe check the waterfall Spitfire fell off of?"

"I guess it's as good an idea as any," Hermes says. "Though truth be told I'd rather never see that waterfall again and… hey, what's that sound?"

"…Cracking?" I say, shrugging from my upside-down position. "Probably a branch or something, that's pretty normal in a forest, right?"

Before I can resume cutting I'm suddenly falling to the ground at what must be a hundred miles per hour. My neck feels loose…

* * *

 **Hermes Jacques, 18 years old – District Two Male of the 40** **th** **Hunger Games**

 **25** **th** **Day of the Games – Arena Time: 14:00**

I couldn't sleep for even a second all night. I was too scared.

Ever since Halibut fell and broke his neck yesterday I've been all alone. I should be happy, being just one more kill away from winning the Games. I'd even take a win by default at this point, just to get out of this shitty arena. I know for a fact that if I can spot Lammy I will win. She'd never be able to best me in a fight.

But no. The little coward is still far away… or maybe she's nearby? I have no idea. I've not seen her in weeks! How ironic, she was on the pedestal closest left to mine and I lunged to the right to break the twelve girl's neck. If I chose differently maybe things would've been different.

At least the clouds are beautiful.

I have no idea where I am going or what I am doing. I've got almost no food, just one bottle of water and a sharp sword. Oh, and paranoia. Lots and lots of paranoia. There might be thousands of traps all around me. Traps just like the ones that killed my entire alliance.

Fuck. I need to end this, quick! If not for the fame and fortune then for my own sanity!

"Lammy you cowardly little bitch!" I scream, my voice echoing across the mountain valley. "Come out and fight me like a real tribute!"

I get no response, not that I expected anything different. As if she'd be brave enough to give me a real fight. She just lets her traps do the hard work for her. She'd never win a fight, not like I could. Even now my muscles are bulging and ready for anything.

I press onwards, ready to go home. Just one more kill, just one more kill. I only need to find her and I'm done. She'd never outfight or outrun me.

And as for outclimbing me? Ha, the thought makes me laugh.

I'm careful to avoid the pair of sap covered trees I pass by. I'd rather keep my face where it's meant to be. Carefully through the middle I go, nowhere near them or the tall grass either side of them that no doubt houses some kind of a bear trap.

Wait… did I just hear a snap?

I glance down and see a broken tripwire? I'm on alert quickly, sword ready and eyes like those of an eagle. I'm ready for anything. No trap is gonna get me.

"Come on, where are you," I stare up at the trees, seeing nothing.

I cough and splutter, short of breath for a moment. A few drops of blood come out.

My back feels damp.

I'm shaking, suddenly lightheaded and spacing out. No, no, no! I'm so close! I stagger a few paces, fighting to keep hold of my breath. I've not been hit by anything, why am I feeling so messed up?

My back is soaking.

I shudder, coughing up more blood. I try shouting for that coward to come on out, but my words are like gibberish. I sway on my feet, deciding to glance back. Maybe it's a knife? If I take it out just right then…

…Shit.

There must be at least twenty wooden spikes stabbed right into my back. The blood is everywhere. I guess that… explains why I… feel like… shit…

The last thing I remember is falling face first to the ground, getting a nasty taste of dirt on my bloodied tongue…

* * *

 **Stallion March, 29 years old – Victor of the 26** **th** **Hunger Games**

 **Mentor Control Room – 14:20**

I stand up from my mentoring station, hardly able to believe what I am seeing. It was impressive when Coast fell into a trap, even moreso – and also disgusting – when Triumph fell to another trap. I'd expected something to go wrong soon enough, but by now it's far too late for such a thing to occur.

Hermes lays face down on the forest ground, his vitals weakening with every passing second. He goes still as a log and the cannon booms.

I can't help feeling like I'm gonna hurl at the sight of all the blood. It's enough to make a man want to stay indoors for a week, if not longer. I force myself to keep watching, even with how awful the germ ridden arena is.

At least it's not the sewer I was in. I ran around smelling like, and covered in, shit and then ended up as the only one who came out clean. What I'd give to forget all about it. Maybe one day I'll have had enough showers to wash away the pain _and_ the smell.

The cannon echoes away into silence and the victory trumpets ring out for all across Panem to see. The camera zooms out into the air high above the mountain arena and then zooms in to a spot around four miles away from where Hermes' corpse lays.

There she is, my first victor. The first of hopefully many that I'll save.

Lammy stands in the breeze of the afternoon, her mane of red hair blowing from the force of it. Aside being coated in a layer of filth of the arena and a few bruises and scrapes from falls she's taken my victor is otherwise just fine.

She looks like I did back when I won the Games. Hardly able to believe it.

Tears well up in her eyes and she drop to her knees, staring off into space. She trembles, huddling her arms around herself as the hovercraft starts to descend to collect her. Lammy mumbles something, soon tossing her knife – by now worn down to being almost worthless – over the edge of a cliff.

"May I present the victor of the Fortieth Annual Hunger Games! Lammy Phyronix!"

Lammy stumbles towards the hovercraft, almost tripping on her baggy outfit twice. The time in the arena and all the constant activity means it hardly fits the poor girl anymore. As she's lifted out of the arena, safe and sound, applause fills my ears.

It takes me a moment before I realise that it's coming from many of the victors in the room with me. Some of them sit and scowl, like Dragon and Bronze. But many others, from Mizar and Gwenith down to Paige, Snag and Rhyder all applaud for me. I can't help feeling bashful, taking a light bow.

"Thank you kindly guys," I say with a smile as I head for the exit door. "But if you'll excuse me there's a little girl coming home in an hour or two who's gonna want to see a familiar face."

* * *

 **Lammy Phyronix, 14 years old – Victor of the 40** **th** **Hunger games**

 **Train, bound for District Ten – 20:00**

The world rushes by me like a blur, the train apparently going at almost two hundred miles an hour. It's strange to be going so fast and not feel a thing.

I wish it could go faster. I just want to go home and fall into dad's arms. If ever I needed a big hug it was now. Those Games… the things I did… I have no idea what to feel or think right now.

My dad's famous and respected. I'm unpopular and stress eat constantly. I just… can't calm down. I'm always worrying, though after surviving the Games maybe I can afford to just assume I can make it through things ok…? I hardly got hurt at all.

Point is, I didn't have the legacy that my dad does but I did have all the skills he taught me over the past decade. How to make a wide variety of traps, how to hunt for my own food, what's safe and unsafe in the wild, the most vulnerable places of the human body to stab… when it comes down to it people can be trapped and hunted just like animals.

It's actually pretty creepy how similar it all is.

I'd been panicking throughout the train ride, worried they'd know all about my dad and what he does. Worried they'd peg me as somebody to kill right away. I was miserable to be reaped, so forcing out those tears to make people think I was a weakling was easy. Easier still to play the role of a victim when the careers thought I was pathetic. The names stung, but not as badly as their weapons would have.

I was so convincing that even my district partner, Hare, assumed I was helpless. He never realised the connection between me and my dad. Maybe he knew dad was a trapper, but he had no idea which trapper dad was.

I guess I got lucky, in a twisted sort of way, that they saw me as a pig for the slaughter. Maybe if they'd seen me as a person they'd have realised who my dad was and what I knew.

But they didn't. That's why I'm here and their lives are over.

For a while I sit here, just quietly watching the trees and field fly by. It's nice, sitting out here at the very back of the train on the outside balcony. Nice chair, a fine mug of tea, no more danger of being killed if they had ever found me… it's nice.

I was lucky in the arena, really. It was a place that I could live off the land and not need to get anything from the Cornucopia until several weeks in. I just had to run away and survive the first fifteen minutes.

I never saw any of the others after that. Maybe that's why I managed to keep my head on straight, because I never saw anybody die or, you know, dying and covered in blood. Not at the bloodbath, not during the early hunts… not even when the careers fell into the traps I'd left all over the place. That last cannon came out of nowhere from my perspective.

The only blood I'd seen was animals that got caught in traps. It was how I fed myself, so… the blood never bothered me there. Just work as usual.

I swallow hard at the thought of the recap footage. The footage that'll be added to the official DVD of the Fortieth Games. I saw every last Games damned bit of it. The bloodbath deaths and how mangled those poor kids were. The careers hunting the rest down like they were scared rats. The careers going from predators to prey and dying in my traps one by one.

I allow myself to throw up over the side of the train when Triumph's death enters my mind. He was the worst of the lot to me, but _nobody_ deserves something like that. Nobody 'deserves' to be in pain.

I sigh, trying to quell my nerves with another sip of tea.

Apparently some are already saying I'm a 'bad victor' as I never once got into a proper fight. I guess I'll let them know when I start caring… probably never, as I'd never apologise for being alive. I never wanted to hurt people, but I was never going to volunteer to die. I still want to grow up, experience new things, maybe have kids of my own… actually, no, forget that. They'd be reaped and die. Maybe I'll just get a hound.

I'm not sure how long I end up staying out here, just gently sipping the tea until I'm using my finger to wipe up the tiniest drops from the bottom of the mug. I guess kind of a while? The sun is starting to set across the plains either side of the train. The golden rays shine down for miles, reflecting off the wetlands that cover maybe around half or so of the ground.

It's beautiful…

…They say that when one door opens another closes. Well, a door certainly closed over the past few weeks. I may not have been the biggest victim – I'm alive and hardly got wounded, after all – but I don't think I'm ever going to be the same girl again. Not with the recap footage in my head, six kills to my name, all those cold nights fearing that it'd be the night they'd finally catch me…

But now the Games are over and I never have to fear another reaping. I'd just started coming to terms with the idea of death the other night and now here I am as a victor. I'm going to be having to mentor kids who, just like me, will be scared out of their minds of what may happen to them. I might be able to save their lives.

I find myself starting to smile at the thought of this, already having lots of ideas for ways I can help; for one, teaching them to make punji sticks. The Hunger Games are awful, but if they can't be gotten rid of then at least I can prevent them hurting my District quite so much. I could be so much more than a trapper.

I could be a hero to a kid who needs somebody to look after them. Everybody needs somebody who loves them at least a few times in life, right? Being loved by somebody is what makes life worth living! If being a loving mentor is what my destiny is… I'm ready for it.

"Maybe this is where the next door opens," I whisper, moving to lean against the railings and gaze out at the lovely scenery.

I remain here, just quietly watching the open wetlands until Stallion calls me in for bed. I don't delay in obeying him.

A good sleep sounds lovely right now, right after a few cookies of course.

* * *

Katniss and Peeta finished their moment of silence.

"I have no idea how she did it, but six kills… this girl's tougher than she looks," Katniss says. "She must have had some serious skills."

"Just like you did then," Peeta added, smiling.

Katniss and Peeta continued walking further down the sidewalk. They soon came across the next face imprinted into the ground. Both exchanged a grim, uncomfortable glance.

"Ah…" Peeta said, wincing.

"Her…" Katniss said, scowling.

Looking back up at them was the face of an elegant looking girl. Long, incredibly well maintained hair with a clip in it, freckles and a soft smile. What was most striking were her eyes… it's was all too obvious there some sort of insanity, a touch of pure malice within them.

After all, Mascara Court was incapable of things like kindness, love and empathy.

* * *

There we have it, Lammy's tale is told! I thought it'd be fun to go with the classic 'tribute of notable skill is assumed to be a pathetic weakling', but this time… tell the story through the POV of tributes who end up dying. Plus, I wanted a victor where they could conceivably win and yet not ever see another tribute outside of the first minute or two. It seemed to me that a harmless looking professional trapper would be the right sort of tribute for this story. Plus, I just find Lammy's flustered, anxious nature to be fun to write about. With Lammy victorious that means the fourth decade has been completed! Keep an eye out for the fifth decade, with several canon victors looming near… and next up, one of the most vicious, cruel victors of them all… O_O

* * *

 **Stats**

 **District 1:** Peridot Gaudy (8th Games), Crystal McCree (14th Games), Bronze Marley (19th Games), Crown Martins (24th Games), Dollar Dettwieller (32nd Games)

 **District 2:** Baron Overwhill (4th Games), Runa Peace (7th Games), Olga Machete (10th Games), Rook Valiant (17th Games), Boulder Atherston (20th Games), Vercingetorix Carnby (25th Games), Dragon Batofel (27th Games), Rhyder Overwhill (39th Games)

 **District 3:** Honorius Perthshire (5th Games), Pi Orbit (22nd Games), Beetee Latier (37th Games)

 **District 4:** Museida Selkirk (3rd Games), Mags Flanagan (11th Games), Tide Luther (23rd Games), Librae Ogilvy (35th Games)

 **District 5:** Shunt Gaspar (12th Games), Isobel Sparks (18th Games), Crimson Flanders (29th Games), Porter Tripp (38th Games)

 **District 6:** Chassis Macalister (31st Games)

 **District 7:** Pliny Aransio (2nd Games), Fir Buzz (9th Games), Jack Tylos (21st Games), Snag Nakamura (34th Games)

 **District 8:** Woof Casino (16th Games), Paige Murphy (30th Games)

 **District 9:** Mizar Aldjoy (1st Games), Gwenith Rosebud (13th Games), Teff Withers (28th Games), Laurel Flamsteel (36th Games)

 **District 10:** Stallion March (26th Games), Lammy Phyronix (40th Games)

 **District 11:** Bear Redfoot (15th Games), Seeder Howell (33rd Games)

 **District 12:** Duke Saint-Rose (6th Games)


	42. Mascara Court

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the Hunger Games. They belong to Suzanne Collins.

 **Note:** It's a noticeable trend that many careers in the fandom, mine including, can be rather psycho and have a thing about torturing their victims. But generally, even they end up finishing things after playing to the crowd enough or may have some shred of a redeeming quality. Here though, we meet Mascara. If ever an outlier in my stuff thinks that careers are addicted to torture and are some sort of demonic force, it's probably because of this particular girl. She's a whole level of her own… so, enjoy the bloodshed!

* * *

Katniss and Peeta stared down at Mascara's imprinted face in the sidewalk, lacking any idea of what to really say about her. She was the sort of victor that needed little introduction nor many words to describe her.

"I'm just gonna come out and say it, she was messed up," Katniss said, a hand over her face. "Just… demented. Awful. Mom saw these ones live, and on rerun, and it was disgusting."

"Worse than Titus' Games?" Peeta asked, unsure of the answer either way. "I don't think she was right in the head. I've no idea what it was, but… apparently Mascara was pretty broken mentally."

"Doesn't justify the things she did," Katniss said, coldly.

The pair went silent, nothing else being said.

* * *

 **41** **st** **Annual Hunger Games**

 **Name:** Mascara Court

 **Gender:** Female

 **District:** 1

 **Age:** 18

 **Kills:** 11

* * *

It had been many years since District One had begun taking the Games as a serious contest. Many years since Peridot emerged victorious while Cadbury was left with a sword shoved up his ass.

Many years since most of the families in the Flawless Estate had doomed their bloodlines to extinction thanks to their own greed and selfishness, sending their children to the arena in hopes of gaining a victor.

None besides Peridot ever made it home.

You'd be forgiven for thinking that the families would just die out by this point or preciously guard what few children they still had. Or, hell, maybe just willingly marry those who were not elite nobles and have more children, the lessons of the past well and truly learnt. It's what the sane and rational would be expected to do, right?

Well, you'd be wrong to assume such things of the Court family. Elitists to the end, practically starving for more status to the exclusion of all else and having nothing but sheer hatred for those deemed as beneath them… a textbook case of a family doomed to die out by their own selfishness and cruelty.

But the thing with people is that when you back them against a wall they'll fight all the harder to live or just plain survive. And as it happens, around the time of the Twenty Second Hunger Games a plan was hatched, a last ditch attempt to keep their family going and have a chance at gaining a victor for the family.

Shortly before the reaping of the Twenty Third Hunger Games a little girl by the name of Mascara Court was born. She, at a glance, seemed healthy, inquisitive and strong for somebody so very little. Her parents couldn't have been prouder of her, their future victor.

Who were her parents?

Victor and Princess Mascara.

Siblings.

In a move that disgusted even the other remaining noble families the Courts had resorted to the taboo of incest to get another child and another chance to have a victor in their family. Their hatred of commoners overrode their sense of morality, conscious and basic decency. And so, nine months after the nauseating deed, a new member of the Court family was born into the harsh world of Panem.

It was quickly apparent that something was very wrong with little Mascara Royal Court.

Even in her infancy the girl was prone to twitches and staring vacantly with the creepiest of gazes. Nobody knew what was going on within her head, but chances were that it was not anything good. Her parents cared nothing for whatever issues she may have had, simply raising her on a diet of strict exercise, the best of health foods and constant propaganda about the importance of winning the Hunger Games.

Years went by as Mascara grew from a little girl to a big girl, her actions only getting worse and her outbursts becoming more and more violent.

At her eighth birthday party she smashed a glass at one of the other nobles and seemed almost eager by the sight of blood.

When she was thirteen she was caught by Peacekeepers skinning a stray dog in an alley. Only her parents' fortune prevented an arrest.

When she was seventeen a petty street thug tried to drag her off while she was returning from the corner bakery. She was found an hour later bathing in the blood of the unrecognisable corpse of the thug.

Most parents would be terrified of their offspring displaying such vicious tendencies and incredible unstable behaviour.

Victor and Princess, along with the rest of the Courts, encouraged it and applauded every single meltdown or incident. Their idea, of course, was to make Mascara as absolutely destructive as she could possibly be. The more vicious and sadistic the girl was able to be, the more likely she would emerge as a victor once she entered the arena.

All letters about Mascara's psychosis and various other ailments were burnt and any medication that happened to be mailed to the manor in an attempt to help the young psychopath – or save the rest of One from her, either was fine – were swiftly disposed of.

Mascara just carried on day after day. Violent rampage to twitching fit. Her own madness made her oblivious to the fact anything was even slightly wrong with her.

All she wanted was to see what people looked like on the inside and all the pretty shades of red.

* * *

Being so incredibly vicious and her capacity for causing pain made Mascara the obvious choice for the female tribute once the reaping of the Forty First Hunger Games came rolling by. The harder part was choosing a male tribute. Not because there was volunteers lined up, but rather that nobody wanted to be in the same arena as the 'District Psychopath'.

After drawing straws it was decided that Caviar McCloud was to be the male tribute. Confident as he was about his chances, the boy was also incredibly unnerved by the twitching girl who ended up on the reaping stage beside him. Shaking her hand, it was said, ended up as the scariest moment of his life.

Legend tells that just looking Mascara right in her eyes could send a boy to madness.

Things did not end up improving for the rest of the preliminary events either. On the train Mascara would just sit quietly, staring at the wall with a vacant look only to suddenly let out a screech for no known reason and start tearing at the cushions. The escort for District One needed two full bottles of wine to make it through the train ride, while Crystal needed the deliberators once again.

Indeed, Mascara's obvious insanity and mania was decided to be too great of a risk for Crystal to mentor. As the victor had known for many years, she wasn't to live for long and was certain that being close to Mascara was more than her weak heart could take. So, by the time the train reached the Capitol – by which time Mascara had broken numerous items on board – Crystal ended up being sent back to One to spend her likely limited time with Harp, while Crown was bought in as a replacement mentor.

Even the famous chatterbox was silenced when he saw what Mascara was like. The way she slapped at the broken, helpless stallions who pulled the chariots. The way she had freaked out and screamed when her prep team were working on her prior to dressing her in a princess gown soaked in fake blood. The way she had to be held back by security from attacking the little kids from Seven.

The nation all thought Mascara was insane, seeing her howling and snarling as she stood cuffed to the chariot that led the parade that year. The Districts were terrified of her. The Capitol thought she'd be a good villain for this year's Games.

Her family simply smirked and sipped wine, ever confident that Mascara was going to be a ferocious warrior and a sure fire victor.

Nobody thought for a moment of asking if the girl needed any help or a shoulder to lean on.

Nobody did a thing when Mascara woke up screaming and destroyed her room in the tribute building in a fit of psychopathic rage and panic.

* * *

Training was a mess.

The Ones and Twos allied right away just as they always did, but it quickly became apparent to the Caviar and his quarry worker allies that their noblewoman ally was perhaps more dangerous to be around than was worth it. Mascara was vicious with her training… and that was exactly the issue.

She was _**vicious**_.

The outliers, whether they were eighteen or twelve, stared in terror as Mascara tore apart training dummies with a wide variety of blades, spilt fake blood over herself, duelled a sparring trainer to the point the man pleaded for mercy and set an all new record on the running course.

The careers were less afraid of her, but the feelings of bonechill and dread remained. Kicking her from the pack would accomplish nothing and her clear insanity made it impossible to try and bond with her. All they could do was mutually agree to take her out in her sleep on either the first or second night.

Mascara seemed oblivious to the fear she inflicted upon others. She hardly said a word as she went wild in training or as she calmly ate the cafeteria food. The most she ever said in those days of training was either muttering about how annoying it was to be forbidden to spill any blood or pleading for her mother when a lighting storm during the second night left her trembling.

Mascara's score of eleven left most of the low scoring outliers, all stuck in the range of two to six, lost in a pit of despair. There was no way they could overcome the demon from One. The other careers all felt fine with their scores of nine or ten, but collectively agreed they needed to dispose of Mascara as soon as they possibly could.

Mascara didn't even react to scoring an eleven. She just stared blankly at the TV, fixated upon Caesar's blood coloured hair as he talked about the current betting odds of the Games.

Mascara didn't make any indicator that she felt anything from her odds being 2-1.

After Mascara had been put to bed later that night a tense discussion began between Caviar and Peridot. The boy, fearing what his district partner was capable of, asked Peridot if it was acceptable for him to want her dead sooner than later. The girl was so demented that he honestly felt safer outnumbered by the Twos.

Still, both were from One and rich should not harm rich.

A rarity for the victor forever loyal to her home, Peridot gave Caviar her blessing to betray Mascara much sooner than the typically permitted point. She'd become revolted by the girl all to swiftly and had known from the start what the circumstances were that led to the girl's mental state.

Alas, any pity she may have had for the mentally broken young women was overrode by the way the other noble families had treated herself and her parents so awfully when she was a kid. If there was to be a victor from One this year then it had to be Caviar. At least he was sane and shared Peridot's interest in the comic book series 'Armadillo Andy'.

* * *

Some interviews are never forgotten once seen, whether they are as grand and well done as Olga's or as much of a mess as that of Arendellian III years later.

Mascara's interview was something else altogether.

As always the girl from One was the tribute slot to start of the night. Most things after Mascara's interview were mainly an afterthought. After all, it's hard to top the girl that went on stage dripping in the blood of a stray cat that had gotten past peacekeepers and into the backstage area. The scent of gore hung about through the entire interview while, between twitches and vacant staring, Mascara muttered out answers to what Caesar asked her. It all came back to one thing in the end.

"I want to kill people and make my mama and papa proud. It's all they asked me to do and it's all I want to do," she said, her tone a creepy blend between posh and vacant.

Nobody forgot Mascara as she was led off the stage by a Peacekeeper once the buzzer went off. They didn't forget the smell of blood either. After all, the scent hung around for the entire interview. Caviar from One gagged from the smell, Mini from Six turned green in her cheeks when she saw the bloodstain on the chair and bony Nakk from Twelve ended up being close to fainting entirely.

Nobody slept soundly that night.

The outliers were far more terrified than they would have been in most years, for this time they were locked in the arena with a psycho beyond the norm expected of careers. A psycho without any kind of mental balance or an ability to feel even the tiniest form of empathy or regret.

The other careers were on edge, knowing that Mascara would be very hard to work alongside. What was to stop the mentally ill girl from lashing right out at them with a knife or twelve if she felt like it on a whim? Could she be killed in her sleep or would she fight back in an instant and take them all down?

Mascara just lay on her bed and stared up at the ceiling, blank. All she had known for her entire life, aside garbled and intelligible thoughts and feelings, was how her mama and papa had been always and forever telling her she had to win the Hunger Games no matter what.

To show no mercy until everybody else was dead. Until she had heard twenty three cannons and heard the trumpets.

Mascara would do them proud, eager to see more pretty red fluid. But she did have a question about something she'd never once understood.

What was mercy, exactly?

* * *

The tributes were launched into the arena and for at least four of them all remaining hope was well and truly lost. The arena would go down as one of the nastiest ones seen in the history of the Hunger Games. The actions committed inside the arena would never truly fade away from memory. They were just too horrible.

The arena was a dark, dull prison. The building was vast, the hallways as long as several miles and hundreds of prison cells lined the corridors. All was without much light, or hope. Monochrome concrete was the only thing of any note around much of the arena, alongside the claw marks and messages written in blood upon the walls. On the walls outside of the prison was the sound of rain hitting against the wall, thunder frequently accompanying it.

The dull silver cornucopia was motionless in front of the tributes, stocked up with containers of food, water, sleeping gear… and many, many serrated blades. All the weapons seemed to be designed to cause extra agony than the already considerable amount they would in any normal year. What little light there was had a particularly nasty looking barbed scythe gleaming within the darkness.

The boy from Eight decided to cut his losses and, seeing his death as certain, died on his own terms by jumping to the landmines.

The sight of the boy's blood only one pedestal to her right had Mascara let out a shuddering sort of giggle. Her eyes widened for a moment, soon narrowing together vacantly. Nobody missed the lecherous smile that crossed Mascara's face.

The gong rang and, due to the lack of any sort of vegetation in the arena this year, all of the remaining tributes charged right into the fray. Some of them, like the little kids from Six, grabbed scraps from the edge and bolted down the nearest hallway for their lives. Some like the careers charged for the weapons at the mouth of the horn of plenty, ready to get killing – and none more ready than Mascara.

But several others had a different plan in mind. Killing off the psychopath before she had a chance to become too powerful.

The boys from Four, Five and Nine were joined by the girls from Three and Eight as they made a charge towards Mascara right from the very beginning. No sooner had Mascara grabbed hold of a curved dagger they were all upon her, trying to bring her to the ground and stomp her to death, at least until one of them were able to grab a blade of some sort.

The rest of the careers did nothing to help their insane ally, caring not if she were to lay dead upon the concrete in under five minutes. They contented themselves with grabbing some gear and starting to attack the boys and girls from Ten and Eleven.

Much to the horror of the nation and the smug delight of the Court family it became very clear that Mascara did not _need_ help.

With an enraged shriek and a demand for the tributes flocking her to not touch her Mascara fought back. Her knife became wedged into the gut of the boy from Nine, his torso ripped apart and sending his entrails out with blood soaking all around him. The girl from Three was sent back against the cornucopia headfirst, her head crushed under Mascara's foot a moment later. The boy from Four was left with his wrists slashed wide open and his throat very much the same. The girl from Eight took a blade into her spine as she tried to run away.

As for the boy from Five? He suffered over three dozen slashes by the barbed scythe Mascara had taken an interest in. He was dead by the third slash, but the girl just kept going on and on with a look of childish glee in her eyes.

The other careers, themselves murderers now as well, stared in horror as their ally began to laugh and bathe in the blood of the children she had killed. She giggled and laughed on and on, laying back to make a 'blood angel' in the large pool that had spilt.

Nobody commented when Arc from Two had been unable to stop himself from being sick. It wasn't like Caviar or Shade felt much better.

Fourteen cannons fired.

* * *

The second day in the prison arena was no better than the first. After all, the demented game of hide and seek had begun and it turned out Mascara was very good at seeking. Though she'd failed to sniff out Cooper and Mini cowering behind a crate in one of the prison cells the pack went by she did catch Yew from Seven in the grand, eerily silent mess hall of the prison.

The boy stood no chance, suffering dozens of cuts, all his limbs being broken and an eye being torn out before death finally claimed him. After that Mascara tore out all his innards and started to paint a picture with them.

Her allies exchanged wary nods, knowing it was time to take out the maniac. She was just too powerful and with too little sanity to back up her prowess. She was, simply put, too dangerous.

Mascara had been training since she could walk. Earlier than any of her allies had been. It was easy for her to sense Caviar's sword coming and cartwheel out of the way. She snarled like a wild animal, not pausing for a moment as she lunged and dug her fingers right into his eyes.

It was a savage battle that lasted a total of fifty four minutes and seven seconds. Caviar, Ark and Shade put up the best fights as they possibly could, but in the end the handsome boy from One and the fearsome girl from Two lay dead, mangled beyond the recognition of most viewers.

Ark ran away in terror, one leg bleeding and one arm torn to shreds. The pain of movement was overridden by the fear of what that freak was doing with the corpses of his allies.

Sure enough, Mascara was coated head to toe in blood and giggling like a schoolgirl. The Capitolites were loving the show she was so easily putting on while the Districts, even Two, were struck with genuine terror of this mentally ill girl. None of them truly knew the circumstances behind her birth, after all.

"Are you proud mama? Are you proud papa?" Mascara asked, crawling over to a nearby camera and giving it a vacant smile. "I'm winning."

While many in District One were feeling more than a little queasy, Victor and Princess were as proud as could be. The entire Court family were proud as they watched their bloodsoaked heir wander through the dark corridors of the prison, her calls for the other tributes echoing like a terrible phantom.

Seeing her cutting apart Beaker from Three later that night only had their greedy grins widen.

* * *

With the outliers who remained being considerably weak, Ark being a fraction of his former power and Mascara being barely harmed as she stalked along in search of prey, well, it made the outcome seem fairly obvious.

She had by far the most kills of those left, eight, with only Ark coming remotely near her. He met his end midway through day three, struck by a vicious punch to the throat by Montana from Nine. With the nearest outlier now having only one kill – not to mention being scared shitless nonstop - it made betting cease downwards to a crawl. Of the six left it seemed obvious who would end up winning.

It became seen as less 'extremely likely' and more 'fact' when Mascara was attacked by Montana and Sandy from Four at the same time. Both outliers thought that, just maybe, if they teamed up then one of them may be able to go home. All it would take would be a lucky stab.

Mascara freaked out the instant they touched her, hardly registering the punch that left some blood tricking from her jaw.

"Don't touch me!" she screamed, tackling the outliers down and knocking away their weapons.

There exists a phrase from a time before Panem ever came to be. 'Take out his heart and show it to him'. If one were to use the opposite pronoun then you'd have an accurate idea of what happened next.

Mascara was so covered in blood now that her normally elegant, almost pretty pale skin could not be seen. She literally looked as though she'd taken a swan dive into a massive pool of tomato soup.

Of course, she did not smell like tomatoes. No, she smelt of pure death.

The odour and her constant yells, twitches and angry fits made it easy for Cooper and Mini to evade her. The twelve year olds no longer feared death. They only feared meeting it because of Mascara.

Just before the anthem began on the end of the fourth day – broadcast on screens fitted to the walls of the long prison corridors – Mascara managed to find Uranium from Five out in the prison courtyard. Neither girl paid mind to the grass nor the sea that was beyond the tall wire fences – proof that the prison was located on an island of sorts – and only stared at each other.

Mascara charged, literally not knowing fear.

Uranium charged, having lost much of her mind from what she'd heard and seen within the prison walls.

Mascara sliced Uranium almost in half with her scythe.

Uranium died in moments.

The cannon boomed.

As Mascara continued wandering around the prison, giggling to herself, two things were apparent.

The first was that Cooper and Mini, holding hands tightly, made a desperate search for the roof of the prison.

The second was that Mascara was a single kill away from breaking the kill record. Just one more and Olga's record would finally be bested. The thought had the citizens of the Capitol cheering the blood-soaked banshee on towards her victory.

* * *

The fourth day was slow and ever so creepy. The cameras showed, with delight, the terror of the kids from Six as they tried to find the roof of the prison while avoiding the demon hunting them down.

The cameras further delighted in showing Mascara as she wandered along, dragging her scythe along the ground behind her. The strangest part of everything was that she was softly singing.

 _Never mind the darkness_

 _Never mind the storm_

 _Never mind the blood red moon_

 _The night will be over soon_

* * *

Cooper and Mini managed to reach the roof of the tall, grim prison near the end of the fifth day. Rain came down from above while Mascara pursued them from below. It seemed certain they were about to die. It seemed just as certain that it was going to be perhaps the worst display of torture in the history of the Hunger Games.

It wasn't.

Mascara emerged from the stairs leading up from below, eagerly giggling, only to see Cooper and Mini hold hands at the edge of the roof. If death was inevitable then they figured it was better to take a deep drop than to let Mascara catch them.

The maniac from one could only stare blankly as the kids jumped to their deaths, a pair of cannons firing only a few seconds later. There was an eerie silence, as if nobody could believe the anti-climax that had just occurred. The rainfall continued unperturbed and started to wash away some of the blood on Mascara's face.

The trumpets rang and Mascara was collected from the arena. Few in the Districts, even within One, cheered for the psychopath. Many were silent in simple, sheer shock and horror at what she'd done. She'd had the bare minimum amount of mental health to be allowed to win and clearly no capacity for any remotely normal feelings.

Nobody who saw her as an actual person was there to see her asking if she could have her mama and papa back yet, mumbling almost inaudibly about wanting them to be proud of her.

Not that she really knew what proudness was.

* * *

Mascara went home to a delighted family, all of them pleased with their new status and all the opportunities and fortune that having a victor in their family would bring them. They believed they were finally getting what they were owed.

None of them, especially not Victor and Princess, bothered to talk to Mascara nor give her any of the treatment she was in desperate need of. It was easy to access it and as a victor her mania was no longer needed.

They saw Mascara the victor, not Mascara the mentally ill girl needing help.

In fact, they hardly saw her at all. Too many parties to attend for them to think of the daughter who had served her one purpose. The honestly weren't sure what to do with her aside parade her around.

The tour, of course, was a disaster. Mascara had to be cuffed and on sedatives the entire time or she'd have probably ended up killing somebody for looking at her funny or just being too close to her. Even with these precautions a few people were left with scars and limps.

It was such a problem, in fact, that Snow decided to do something about this girl. He'd tolerated her in the arena, if only as the Capitol citizens had loved her crazy antics so much and he needed public support, but seeing the terrible way she was behaving and all the mania she was sure to bring within the Capitol during the next Hunger Games made him resolve to get rid of her.

The fact Bronze had phoned up and requested he do something about her – apparently she'd broken his bedroom window and scared off the whore he'd been spending the night with – had his mind made up.

The Grim had been able to deal with Isobel just fine and had lowered a good bit of rebellion by doing so. He was sure the mountain of a man would be able to kill the demented beauty. And, perhaps, other victors he believed could become troublesome.

He'd never liked the victor of the First Games very much nor the girl from Four who won the Eleventh Games. Indeed, the married pair from Two were annoying in their own way…

"Eliminate her," Snow told his most trusted and powerful of assassins. "Same for her family if they get in your way."

The Grim responded with a single, deep nod.

* * *

Two months before the reaping for the Forty Second Hunger Games, themselves never forgotten albiet for entirely different reasons, Mascara wandered out of another massive party that the Courts were throwing. They'd thrown over a hundred by now, eager to keep riding off of her success.

They'd spoken to her less than a hundred times since she'd won. Perhaps less than half of that.

Nobody noticed that Mascara was gone, the young women being able to freely wander away into the night. Before long she ended up in a moonlit field and found herself gazing at the stars above.

She was also set upon by The Grim, the man having stalked her to this place. He figured that, as a gun would draw in too much attention, he'd be able to get the job done just fine with a pair of knives.

He was wrong.

Mascara was not like other targets he'd been forced to take down hand to hand. She didn't fight with rationality or an instinctive fear of being hurt. She fought like a completely savage wild animal. This, combined with her combat prowess after over fifteen years of training, made her a formidable opponent.

The Grim was in the fight of his life and _for_ his life. It had been so easy for Mascara to break two of his fingers and wrestle a knife away from him. Easier still for her to start slashing madly with it, forcing him to back up and try to block her attacks. He reasoned she would get tired soon enough.

The duel under the moonlight continued for a long time, The Grim taking more hits as time went on. Mascara was wounded too, but it seemed like she was unable to register the fact she was in pain and be made to recoil.

The sight of blood just seemed to make her happy and inspire her to fight all the harder. Hard enough to land a nasty stab just below The Grim's left lung.

The ending of this vicious one on one bloodbath was nothing short of incredible and ever so eerie.

The Grim finally landed a fatal stab to Mascara's gut, but by that point she'd been a nanosecond from slashing his throat open. The Grim, thought to be unbeatable, fell down dead and Mascara made short work of his body. He would be near impossible to recognise.

Mascara took the knife out, wondering why she felt so cold and sleepy all of a sudden. Her twitching was starting to slow down as well. She slowly walked away from the bloody mess that used to be Snow's best assassin and soon realised it was too hard for her to walk.

Sitting would do.

When sitting became too hard lying down became the next best thing.

Mascara lay down, staring up at the moon and stars as the seconds ticked down towards zero. She was covered in blood and her eyes were as vacant and unnerving as always, and yet she seemed like she was at peace.

"Blood… so much… blood…" Mascara muttered, making one last twitch of her leg.

Mascara faintly smiled and closed her eyes. It was as if a cannon had silently gone off, the field soon left as silent as the night itself.

Silent until a search party came looking for the missing victor and found the bodies.

Cue pandemonium.

* * *

Mascara may have died so soon after she won but she was not a girl who would ever be forgotten. Not after the things she had done within the arena and outside of it too.

The districts would often fear her or hold her in contempt for her terrible murders.

The Capitol mostly liked her for putting on such a show and considered her death a tragedy.

District One in particular made it a point for their tributes, however nasty they had to be, to not 'pull a Mascara'. There had to be some limits, or else were they better than the average common animal?

The Courts were thrown out of the victor village as soon as Mascara's death was reported. Such was the way it worked, for one was only entitled to victor rewards when the victor was alive. With their surplus partying, absence of heirs aside Mascara, lack of fortune outside the repossessed victor stipend and reputation of created a monster from the taboo of incest it all led to the disgraced, hated noble family dying out by the time the next Quarter Quell arrived.

Snow decided that he had gotten very lucky that Mascara had left The Grim unable to be recognised. If she hadn't then things could have all fallen apart. While he was glad she was dead, he felt a little wary of how close things been to a downfall. No more assassinating disliked victors. He'd learnt his lesson. There were better ways to keep his power and keep everybody in line.

Nobody ever wondered to themselves if things could've been different if Mascara had ever been given a little love and professional help, before or after she won. But such is often the way with a maniac. People might not flip past the earliest of pages in their story.

* * *

Katniss and Peeta said nothing else once their brief silence was over. Both were quick to move on, neither feeling comfortable spending more time by Mascara's imprinted face than they had to.

"Think the next victor is any less… messed up?" Peeta asked.

"Hard for them to be any worse," Katniss replied.

The pair soon came across the next victor imprinted upon the street. The face on the ground was that of a young boy with a face full of life and a notably large fringe. The look in his eyes was cheeky, but also confident… like he knew something that very, very few others did.

"Tag Nylon," Katniss read. "Know anything about him?"

"Just a charismatic kid from Eight, so I hear. Not much else to say," Peeta replied.

Peeta did not know how wrong he was. Neither he nor the Capitol – not even President Snow himself when he was alive – knew about the scam of the century pulled off flawlessly by the forty second victor.

* * *

There we go, Mascara! I gotta say, disgusting as this chapter may have been in a few – or maybe more than merely a few – places, mentally ill characters are really fun to write for. They offer plenty of unique feelings, actions and takes you'd not get from somebody like, say, Mizar. The goal here was to make a psycho known for inflicting pain, agony and starting the trend of careers being truly feared for torture, and where that reputation truly comes from. Of course, making Mascara a basic maniac would be too easy and… boring, in my opinion? So, I tried to make her come off as pitiable. Somebody who, in a certain point of view, may need a hug if that makes any sense at all? Hoping it came off well and wasn't too heavy handed. In any case, next up is a character I'm quite attached to and have high hopes for! So, stay tuned guys!

* * *

 **Stats**

 **District 1:** Peridot Gaudy (8th Games), Crystal McCree (14th Games), Bronze Marley (19th Games), Crown Martins (24th Games), Dollar Dettwieller (32nd Games), Mascara Court (41st Games)

 **District 2:** Baron Overwhill (4th Games), Runa Peace (7th Games), Olga Machete (10th Games), Rook Valiant (17th Games), Boulder Atherston (20th Games), Vercingetorix Carnby (25th Games), Dragon Batofel (27th Games), Rhyder Overwhill (39th Games)

 **District 3:** Honorius Perthshire (5th Games), Pi Orbit (22nd Games), Beetee Latier (37th Games)

 **District 4:** Museida Selkirk (3rd Games), Mags Flanagan (11th Games), Tide Luther (23rd Games), Librae Ogilvy (35th Games)

 **District 5:** Shunt Gaspar (12th Games), Isobel Sparks (18th Games), Crimson Flanders (29th Games), Porter Tripp (38th Games)

 **District 6:** Chassis Macalister (31st Games)

 **District 7:** Pliny Aransio (2nd Games), Fir Buzz (9th Games), Jack Tylos (21st Games), Snag Nakamura (34th Games)

 **District 8:** Woof Casino (16th Games), Paige Murphy (30th Games)

 **District 9:** Mizar Aldjoy (1st Games), Gwenith Rosebud (13th Games), Teff Withers (28th Games), Laurel Flamsteel (36th Games)

 **District 10:** Stallion March (26th Games), Lammy Phyronix (40th Games)

 **District 11:** Bear Redfoot (15th Games), Seeder Howell (33rd Games)

 **District 12:** Duke Saint-Rose (6th Games)


	43. Spool Nylon

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the Hunger Games. They belong to Suzanne Collins.

 **Note:** Another chapter, another Games full of all kinds of blood and chaos! If any of you have read Born to Die, written by TheConsultingMaurader, then you'll know exactly who this boy is and what he did to outsmart the Capitol. Much like Lammy I had to increase his age due to the whole 'no victors aged twelve or thirteen in canon' thing, but he's still the same boy you may remember. Hope you guys enjoy!

* * *

Katniss and Peeta looked down at Tag's face, as if appraising him.

"He doesn't look like much," Katniss said, thoughtful. "But, maybe I'm underestimating him. Perhaps people within his arena did just the same."

"Seems possible. A lot of times the older tributes don't give the young ones enough credit," Peeta added. "Good on Tag for surviving the arena. Hard for anybody to do, no matter what their age is. It's hell."

"Sure is," Katniss agreed, a dark look in her eyes.

Katniss and Peeta held a moment of silence for Tag Nylon, both knowing little about him.

It made sense. After all… Tag Nylon had never been in the arena in the first place. His identical twin brother, Spool Nylon, had been the one to brave the arena in his place. The scant few who knew the truth would go as far as to call it the greatest story never told.

* * *

 **42nd Annual Hunger Games**

 **Name:** Spool Nylon

 **Gender:** Male

 **District:** 8

 **Age:** 14

 **Kills:** 4

* * *

District Eight wasn't quite the cesspit it had been in the aftermath of the Dark Days and around the time Woof had emerged as a victor. While far from anything resembling homely, it had admittedly come a long way from its once desecrated state. Businesses were getting by – more or less – and the quality of life was at least above that seen in districts Six, Eleven and Twelve.

All the same, life was pretty shit and that was not about to change. Not for a long time. Survival was now in the realm of 'possible', but it still took plenty of work to pull off.

Work that Spool Nylon was ready, willing and able to pull off.

At the age of fourteen Spool had already carved a name for himself in Town 57 within District Eight. His silver tongue was the stuff of seeming legend, forever helping him sell all manner of goods and services to those who lived around him. Fabric that factories threw out, sock puppet shows, drainage cleaning, car washing and even a single case of removing a tracker-jacker hive. It wasn't quite the same pay as what an official job would bring in, but it paid well enough.

Spool wasn't alone in his efforts. He was, in fact, the leader of a gang of boys that collectively called themselves the Sock Knights. A group of four boys from the same housing block his own family lived in – Stretch, Buckle, Mitten and Aglet – as well as his endlessly trustworthy right hand man, his own twin brother Tag. It was almost like they were local celebrities of some sort.

Celebrities who made decent money. Thanks to their efforts not a single one of them nor their family had needed to take out any tesserae since their first reaping at the time of the Fortieth Hunger Games. They were as safe as they could possibly be.

Of course, being as safe as possible does not mean totally safe. In Panem it basically meant 'still in the crosshairs of disaster'.

That was why, with a mere three slips in the reaping bowl, Tag Nylon was reaped to be District Eight's male tribute for the Games. He approached the stage with all the enthusiasm of a corpse, something he felt certain he would become in the coming days.

Weak tributes had won before, but it often involved a bit of luck. Something Tag, being scared of numerous things and having bad asthma, was sure he lacked. Indeed, as he stood on the reaping stage beside the escort – this year dressed as a shopping trolley, obviously – he was already starting to undergo an asthma attack.

Spool did not hesitate to act once the few seconds of shock had passed. He opened his mouth, ready to put his life on the line and trade places with his dear twin.

It was also the exact moment a passing fly chose to go right up to his mouth as he opened it to speak.

Spool choked and wheezed, hacking and writhing until he managed to spit the fly out. Due to this, however, the chance for volunteers had passed by. Indeed, Tag and the girl who had been reaped – a lanky sixteen year old from one of the dye factories - were already being taken into the judgement building by the peacekeepers.

Spool was never one to admit defeat and just allow for something bad to happen. The game had changed a little, but the end result was still going to be the same.

All it took was asking his parents if he could have a few minutes alone with his brother.

* * *

"Switch clothes with me."

These were four words that kicked off the biggest scandal that the nation would ever see and not know of until many, many years later.

Tag wiped away his many tears and stared at Spool, bewildered.

"What… what do you mean?" he asked, quiet as a mouse.

"They want Tag Nylon in the arena. If we swap clothes then I can be Tag Nylon for a few weeks," Spool explained, already taking off his hoodie. "You trust me, don't you Tag?"

"I do, I do. But if they catch us… we're both dead," Tag winced, glancing to the door. "Are you sure…?"

"It's now or never," Spool paused, taking a deep breath. "I know it's dangerous, I know I could die… but that's just it, I _could_ die. We both know you _will_."

"Can't argue that," Tag admitted, folding quickly. "Ok, but what if they tell us apart?"

"We look the same. They only got a good look at us today, they won't know the difference. Just be sure to let nothing slip once the family interviews arrive," Spool said, taking his shirt off. "C'mon, we have about three minutes."

The twins changed quickly, soon wearing each other's outfits. Tag wiped away his tears while Spool poked himself in the eye a few times to force out some tears. To anybody aside their own parents there would be no possible way to tell the pair apart. They were, for all intents and purposes, identical. The Capitol would have no way of knowing they'd gotten the wrong twin.

"I guess I'll… see you soon?" Tag said, forcing a smile.

"You will. Trust me brother, I'll be back in two weeks tops. You'll see," Spool offered his brother a fist bump, one quickly taken. "You may even see me sooner. I have a feeling I'm gonna be on TV in a week."

With a final laugh the Nylon brothers parted ways. Tag walked out the doors to freedom while Spool relaxed upon the sofa within the reaping room.

No alarms went up. Nobody came running. Nobody came by to take a look at him.

It had gone off without a hitch.

The Capitol thought that Tag Nylon had boarded the tribute train not long after that, heading towards certain death after his weak showing upon the reaping stage.

Spool had no intent of correcting them. He played his part well, keeping under the radar as much as possible. He had little intent to cause any trouble until he'd seen his opponents and worked out a game plan.

Still, if the chance arose he might cause a _little_ trouble. He was, after all, Spool Nylon.

* * *

"What are you doing, Tag?"

Spool glanced up from his spot by the TV late at night. His mentor, Paige, looked down at him curiously. A glance between the reaping recaps and his rather filled notebook gave her a decent idea on what her tribute was up to.

"Exactly what it looks like. Making notes on who I'm up against," Spool replied. "Seems like a strong group this year. The boy from One seems like a real monster."

"Not as much as that girl from last year," Paige shuddered, a little green in her cheeks at the thought of the dead victor. "…Feel scared? Worried? Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Well… I'd love some cookies right about now," Spool said, grinning cheekily.

Paige paused, looking at her tribute with a puzzled sort of expression.

"What? Something on my face?" Spool asked, smirking.

"…You don't seem as scared as you did on the reaping stage," Paige said, bemused. "It's… you've pulled quite a turn from what I'd been expecting."

"Oh, the crying? The 'asthma'? That was all just an act," Spool replied, turning back to the recaps. "I just wanted the careers to think I'm not any kind of a threat to them. I don't want a target on my back, not like the boy from Five."

It was a fact, the boy from Five was likely to become a major threat. If not for his confidence on how he would be able to win the Games in under a week then perhaps for the simple fact he was another convict sentenced to death who used the reaping to escape his fate.

"Are you a threat though?" Paige asked, sitting herself down beside Spool. "You're just fourteen, Tag."

"Paige, by the time these Games come to an end Panem is gonna see exactly why the name Tag Nylon is one to be remembered," Spool replied, his eyes gleaming with confidence. "I think I've got everything under control."

"Well… I believe you. I was weaker, and I won…" Paige trailed off for a moment, almost zoning out. "Well, anyway, if I can be of any help – for something _besides_ fetching you snack food – let me know."

"Will do," Spool replied, playfully saluting his mentor. "I think we're gonna be a great team, you and I."

Paige smiled, leaving to grab some cookies for Spool – and, perhaps, one for herself – while Spool went back to making all the notes he could think of about his fellow tributes.

Confident as he acted, he wasn't a fool. He knew that he had a very serious problem on his hands this time around. One that was more apparent now than in any other year.

The tributes were huge and he was the only one under the age of fifteen.

* * *

After a rather embarrassing parade where he was forced to dress up like a baby blue oven mitt Spool was ready to get stuck into training. People skills were his forte, but not fighting skills. He knew he needed to get cracking soon or he'd be left behind quickly.

But first, survival skills. Living in an urban environment like Eight hadn't gifted him with survival knowledge like tributes from places such as District Seven or Nine would most likely know.

"Not many tributes come here right off the bat," the trainer at the edible plants training station remarked.

"Yeah, and I bet most of those that never come here end up dying," Spool replied briskly. "I'd rather avoid that if I can help it."

The morning passed by slowly as Spool learnt everything he could about edible plants, finding safe water and even what bugs were edible just in case he became _that_ level of desperate. After two hours Spool moved on from survival training to learning about knife fighting. They were the most common weapon in most arenas, so it was merely a matter of common sense.

Nobody paid the smallest tribute any mind at all as the training went by. It suited Spool fine, as it gave him the chance to observe the other tributes as they went about their own training and planning.

As expected the pairs from One, Two and, once again, Four had allied up into one mighty looking career pack. All eighteen, all burly, all of them over six feet tall and not one of them looking like anything less than a pure sadist. The other tributes – most of whom had some muscle on them - were scared shitless of them.

All except the boy from Five and the girl from Seven, of course. The gung-ho and peppy attitude the former had towards murder got him quickly accepted into the pack while the latter's particularly strong survival skills had her accepted as well. Why waste time with training on survival skills if they just had an ally who did it all for them?

It was bad news for Spool, the boy knowing that an eight member career pack would be suicidal to try and take on face to face, He'd have to fight smarter, not harder.

He puzzled over this, wondering how he'd be able to pull it off.

He was no closer to his answer by the end of the first training day, only learning that the scrawny, weak kids from Eleven and Twelve had formed their own alliance.

Spool went to bed thinking, and thinking hard.

* * *

Trouble broke out shortly after lunch on the second day of training. The morning had been a quiet, sordid affair with the eight member career pack training with the most terrifying weapons and making plans for the bloodbath, plans Spool hadn't been close enough to overhear. It had also been when the boy from Three sprained his ankle on the obstacle course.

The afternoon kicked off with the careers, as many packs before them had done, taking the time to start mocking and tormenting the weaker tributes. Spool had wisely climbed up into the rope and net course upon the ceiling to evade them and avoid making himself a target. He knew he'd be unable to resist saying something right back at them.

He was unable to hold back when he saw all eight of them cornering his district partner, Jemma, and starting to mock her.

"Did the baby lose her bottle?" Midas, the ferocious boy from One, jeered.

"Why don't we give her one in the arena?" Shine, the girl from One, teasingly added. "I've always wanted to see somebody swallow a glass bottle."

"Sounds like a great idea to me," Midas remarked, laughing loudly.

There was an applause, but not the one any of the pack had particularly wanted. Rather than a cheering crowd or some impressed gamemakers it was a mere slow clapping they received.

A sarcastic, slow sort of clapping.

"Whoa, you're picking on somebody who can't fight back and with eight to one numbers too. You must feel _really_ good about yourselves" Spool remarked, a dull frown adoring his face.

Midas snickered, more amused than anything else. The rest of the pack snickered likewise, the girl from Seven being the last to join when Shipwreck from Four lightly elbowed her.

"Oh, and who might you be?" Midas asked, not remotely bothered.

"Tag Nylon," Spool replied. "So hey, you and your career friends have been training for, say… all your lives, right?"

"Pretty much since we were all five, yeah," Midas said, shrugging. "What of it?"

"Were you so scared at the idea of going head to head with somebody like my district partner that you had to train up for years and form a massive alliance to stand a chance?" Spool let out a cheeky laugh. "That's pretty pathetic."

Midas quickly lost his bored expression, now looking particularly pissed off. His alliance similarly looked offended by the accusation of cowardice.

"Say that again," Midas said, his eyes darkening.

"I said you're cowards. Problem?" Spool asked, turning to casually walk away from the pack. "Just saying, needing eight people to mock one tribute? That's… pretty lame guys."

In all the shouting that followed the initial mockery Jemma was able to quickly scamper off unseen and hid herself in one of the artificial bushes where she remained for much of the day. Spool, meanwhile, had no such escape as the eight members of the pack switched their focus towards him.

He trained hard throughout the day, favouring knives and the crossbow while taking time at the medical training station. On the one hand he hated all the vicious, cruel threats he was receiving.

On the other hand he rather liked being the one and only thing the pack were focusing on for the second half of the day. They appeared blind to anything but the chance to intimidate him. True enough, Spool was rather unnerved by some of their more 'creative' threats, but he'd achieved what he had wanted… and it wasn't just helping Jemma.

"Hey, guys?" Spool said just as training was coming to an ending. "I love a pack of fans following me around just like the next guy, but… you _do_ realise you just wasted half a day of training right?"

A stunned silence confirmed the pack had not, in fact, realised this. At that point it seemed the only logical thing to do was increase the threats cast against Spool and add methods of torture involving knee tendons to the overall list, but Spool was already making his way over towards the elevator to head back to his floor of the training centre. Between listening to threats and having some peace to read a good book he'd pick the latter each time.

He was joined in the elevator by Midas and the career was not happy. On the contrary, he was more than a little pissed off at the younger tribute.

"You have some nerve," Midas hissed, looming over Spool with bulging muscles. "I'd think you'd want to be more careful Tag, given how tiny and weak you are."

"Hey, you should be grateful," Spool forced a look of confidence, trying to not let any kind of anxiety slip. "I just got us a spot in the story."

"The story?" Midas asked, dry.

"Yeah, each Games has a story to be told doesn't it? You know, when they put it on TV for reruns. They have to pack it into three hours, yeah?" Spool, with practised ease, switched into his salesman voice. "Picture this, a massive rivalry breaks out before the Games even start and the desire for a kill is mutual on both ends. Who will win? The leader of an eight person career pack where betrayal is inevitable? Or the shrewd, sly underdog from the textile district? The sponsors eat that kind of stuff up. Don't they tell careers about the showbiz side of the Games?"

Midas paused upon hearing this, mulling it over in his head. He rather liked the idea of having the edge on his alliance when it came to sponsors. With thoughts of fame and stardom increasing his already considerable greed he was quick to shake Spool's hand, almost crushing it in the process.

"Alright, I'm in, let's make a show out of it," Midas snickered at the sight of Spool holding his rather sore hand. "Nobody's gonna forget about me when these Games are done. Sweet dreams 'rival'."

"Sweet dreams," Spool muttered as Midas left the elevator.

Once Midas was gone Spool let out a chuckle. Despite the throbbing of his hand he felt rather satisfied by all that had transpired. Indeed, he seemed smug!

"Oh Midas, all that glitters is not gold. Let's see how quickly you learn that."

* * *

Spool's score of eight would have been pretty decent in most years, but this year was a particularly strong one. Only three tributes, Jemma included, scored below a six, the pair from Eleven achieved sixes and the rest all scored anywhere from seven to eleven. Midas was one of the lattermost scorers alongside Asterix and Getafix, the boy and girl from Two, and made certain to brag about it in his interview.

"Obviously I knew that I was going to score high. Problem was that I expected a twelve," Midas gave a mock sigh. "As if that wasn't bad enough, Tag only scored an eight."

"Oh, you have a little something with Tag?" Caesar asked, rather curious. "An alliance perhaps?"

"Quite the opposite," Midas said, snickering. "More of a rivalry. He mocked me a lot in training and I did not like it. Not one bit. I intend to show him that my alliance is strong and how we're not a pack of 'cowards' as he put it."

"I like that ferocity, I love it!" Caesar exclaimed. "Think your rivalry will be settled tomorrow or do you see it playing out for longer?"

"Hard to say for sure. Tag's a tricky one, but it's just a matter of time. When we clash blood will be spilt," Midas vowed.

The interviews kept passing by, much of the careers making similar curses towards Spool or threats towards other outliers. Shipwreck in particular was more than ready to get on with gutting Jemma and the pair from Twelve. The audience ate up all the threats and the attempts of the outliers to look tough, like the boy from Seven talking about his time in wrestling club and the girl from Six mentioned a few bar fights she won.

They were all forgotten when Spool took to the stage, sauntering on and waving to the crowd. He played them with ease as he took his seat beside Caesar, most of the audience starting to believe 'his' reaction on the reaping stage had been a mere act.

"Oh, yeah, I may have implied Midas and his crew were a pack of cowards. But I'm fourteen and apparently that means I just cannot keep my mouth shut. Teenagers are pretty reckless, so they say," Spool relaxed in his chair, hands behind his head.

The audience loved it all. From Spool's tales about his desires to be the ultimate businessman within District Eight, his fondness of old medieval stories of great knights and his relaxed confidence and charisma he displayed with such ease it all added to him being one of the Capitol's favourites.

"So tell us Tag, anybody back home you're winning this for? A little lady perhaps?" Caesar asked, as if slyly asking a secret of a trusted friend.

"Nah, no time for girls when there's work to be done," Spool replied, unphased. "If I can win the Games then my family won't ever want for anything again, same for my friends. I'm doing this for my parents and my brother Spool, who is _awesome_ by the way."

Spool turned towards the audience and let out a loud 'psssst' sound.

"Guys, spoiler alert, bet on me!" Spool stage whispered. "Tag Nylon, your next victor."

Spool left the stage to a thunderous applause, whispers of his brother's name filling the audience throughout the girl from Nine's interview. The poor girl got hardly any coverage.

Spool pitied her, but knew only one was getting out alive. He'd laid out the groundwork for his spot in the narrative and learnt all the skills he could manage. He'd sold himself to the audience with all the charisma he had.

All that remained was fighting his way to the top, hard as it would be.

On the District Eight floor of the tribute building that night Spool leaned towards Jemma's ear as they quietly sat down to watch TV.

"Allies?" Spool offered her.

Jemma sobbed and sniffled, but nonetheless gave Spool a weak nod.

* * *

Spool was launched into the arena the next morning and, after taking a quick glance at the arena, let out an unimpressed sigh.

"I really wanted some kind of desert or maybe a city," Spool said, shaking his head.

The arena of the Forty Second Hunger Games was a grand, dark forest. The sky and the ground were all tinted a sickly, poisonous shade of green while the bark of all the trees was a charbroiled tone of black. Rivers were easily visible from the forest clearing that housed the silver cornucopia, all of them noxiously green and horribly acidic. All the large roots of trees that grew into them were horrifically gnarled and burnt.

The countdown began before Spool could really put together a quick plan. He smiled when he spotted Jemma on the pedestal directly to his right, but his smile vanished when he saw Getafix two spots down from Jemma, Shipwreck directly to his left and Midas just beyond Shipwreck. It was one of the worst starting formations possible.

Midas glanced at Spool for a moment. He smirked.

Spool tried to return the smirk, directing his focus towards a large pack about thirty yards from where Midas was standing. He readied himself to run.

The gong rang sooner than later and the Games began with all of the tributes staying by the cornucopia to battle it out. Midas easily reached the pack before Spool could come anywhere close to it. His triumphant grin turned into fury when he realised he'd been duped; Spool had never planned on going for the pack, merely gazing at it to fake him out.

He watched as, beyond Shipwreck slitting the boy from Seven's throat wide open, Spool had grabbed an entirely different pack and was trying to get Jemma to move off her pedestal and flee with him. The girl was in the midst of a breakdown, crying hysterically and remaining immobile on her launch plate as Spool tugged on her arm.

"Jemma, come on! We've gotta get out of here!"

Spool barely dodged the spear that was sent his way by Asterix. Seeing that Midas was coming at him, knife in hand, he made the first of many hard decisions. With a last, sympathetic look at Jemma he tore off into the overgrowth of the forest.

As annoyed as Midas was that the annoying kid from Eight had managed to evade him for now, he soon shrugged to himself. Plenty more killing to be done until he could track down his little adversary. With a casual strut he approached Jemma and drove his knife right into her throat, twisting the blade to ensure extra pain.

"Yeah! See that sponsors?" Midas asked, letting Jemma's body fall upon her launch plate. "Tag's gonna get triple what I just did!"

A laugh rang through the air. Vuller from Five casually chopped of the fingers of the screaming boy from Eleven, whistling a fond tune as he did so.

"Oh boy, I just love killing!" Vuller exclaimed, sounding outright pleasant. "Young, old, human, animal, doesn't matter! I just gotta kill, haha!"

Midas shook his head, slightly disturbed at the sight of this.

"Hey, Vuller! If you like killing so much try to stop people from getting away!" Midas barked, turning his attention to the tiny boy from Six who'd been sneaking away with a small sack of bread.

Vuller did as he was asked and sped off after the fleeing form of the boy from Twelve. The miner boy was skinny and half-starved, but he wasn't slow. Against all odds he managed to outrun the murderer from the power district in short order.

Vuller did, however, manage to spot Spool hauling his way up a steep, muddy bank not far from where he was. Ignoring the way Spool was cautiously looking above him Vuller charged onwards, knife in hand.

"Oh boy, here I go killing again!" Vuller exclaimed with a laugh.

Spool didn't panic, instead working to reach the top of the bank before Vuller reached him. He and the maniac locked eyes for a brief moment.

No words were spoken. Spool threw his bag of supplies high into the air and ran off with only a knife to his name. The bag struck something in the trees, landing in Vuller's hands a moment later.

"Finders keepers!" the boy said, laughing.

A moment later a nest of disturbed, furious tracker jackers fell down onto his head. Vuller's screams were loud, but the buzzing was much louder. He died with little fanfare and tons of agony.

The bloodbath ended with the death of the chubby boy from Three at the sharp end up Midas' sword. Eleven cannons fired out while the remaining tributes began to either arm up in the case of the now seven strong career pack, or spread out as far away as possible in the case of the outliers.

Midas and Spool got the bulk of the screen time. Their rivalry was the pre-game focus and the fact both were alive and unharmed had all the Capitol citizens on the edges of their seats.

The careers soon left to hunt through the acidic forest in the general direction that Spool had ran. They were soon treated to the sight of Vuller's bloated corpse.

"This is Tag's handiwork alright. We're on his trial," Midas said, ever confident.

They hadn't realised that Spool had already taken to the trees and doubled back through the thick branches and long vines. The large pack vanished into the rising mist, giving Spool the chance to return to the cornucopia and start ransacking several of the supplies.

He wasn't alone for long.

Spool watched as the boy from Twelve, Orinoco, approached him from the mist. The fast boy had stayed close enough to watch Vuller to taken out and the pack leave. For a short time all was silent as the boys warily surveyed each other, separately working to gather up equipment.

Spool had a backpack of water, food, knives and held a short sword in his hand. Orinoco had much the same in his own bag but instead held a hatchet and stood as the only one left of his planned alliance. The elevens and his district partner had been brutally killed by the Twos.

"…Allies?" Spool suggested. "I think we're the youngest tributes left. Might as well team up if we're gonna topple the older, stronger troubles."

"I like the way you think," Orinoco agreed, relaxing slightly. "Allies it is."

With a light tap of sword against hatchet a new alliance was formed.

* * *

The second day was no better than the first. The acid water was proving to be incredibly hard for the tributes to find safe ways to cross, owing to the notable lack of any bridges. But more than that, it was proving itself to be undrinkable. It was a mistake that the girl from Five would not make a second time. She'd survived, but not without scorching all of her mouth and throat ever so badly.

Spool took a nice gulp from one of his own water bottles, thankfully filled with safe and clean water, and glanced towards his ally as they crossed a fallen tree over an acidic pond.

"Our water won't last forever," Spool said, capping his bottle. "We can't just go back to the cornucopia any time we need more."

"I guess not. How're we getting more then?" Orinoco gestured to the pond, shaking his head. "I'm not desperate enough to drink that shit."

"Got that right. The gamemakers won't have made it impossible to find water…" Spool paused, tapping his chin. "There has to be more. It's just… hidden."

"Hidden where?" Orinoco asked. "Just dirt, acid and trees for miles."

"Hmmm, true, it is just that… so it must be hidden within them!" Spool snapped his fingers, inspired. He approached a nearby tree, surveying it up and down. "Ok, let's see here…"

"What is it?" Orinoco asked, curious.

A cannon boomed throughout the arena. The boys were silent for a moment, listening carefully. A hovercraft descended around five miles to the north of them, barely audible.

"Well, it's the final twelve. Halfway towards home," Spool remarked. "But also, I think the water might be in the trees."

Spool struck the tree with his sword. The weapon, being hardly the sort of thing to be used on trees, hardly did a thing. But, what little it did caused droplets of water to leak out from within the bark. Orinoco approached the tree with a grin.

"Smart thinking Tag," Orinoco said, smashing his axe at the tree. Water gushed out a moment later. "Think the careers will work this one out?"

"If we're lucky then they'll be stupid," Spool said, letting some of the water trickle into his bottle. "If any of them are going to work it out it'll be the girl from Seven. The survivalist."

The pair were quiet for a while as they refilled their water bottles. Both were starting to think of the same thing, it was just a matter of who would say it first.

"…She'd not figure it out if she was dead," Orinoco muttered.

"Indeed not," Spool said as he and his ally continued walking. "The dead don't tend to think much of anything."

Both knew what they had to do if their idea of depriving the careers of water was to have any feasible way of working.

They'd have to track down the pack and kill the girl from Seven who walked amongst them.

* * *

Most of the time outliers would avoid the careers like the plague, at least until several of them were already dead. Seeking out a seven member pack was suicide, plain and simple. And yet, that was exactly what Spool and Orinoco were doing throughout the next few days in the arena. With their knowledge of how to quickly acquire more water time was not of the essence, though that didn't cause them to relax.

One didn't need charisma to know that relaxing within the arena was a particularly bad idea.

The pack's lack of need for any amount of stealth helped Spool and Orinoco track them down midway through the afternoon of the fifth day. The cries of their latest victim also helped.

Spool split up from his ally for the time being and moved through the upper branches, ever careful to avoid any weak branches or the danger of losing his footing. He soon sat himself in the upper canopy, flinching from the sight of the careers kicking around the girl from Nine. The poor girl was already beaten and bloody, hardly able to move after all the pain the pack had inflicted upon her.

"Where's your mentor now?" Midas asked, chuckling as he struck the girl with his sword. He practically basked in the boom of the cannon.

"Not bad," Asterix said, cracking his knuckles. "They all going to be that easy?"

"Seems like it. I expected better. I thought all of the tributes still alive scored an eight or better," Midas shook his head, annoyed. "Shame really. Didn't want it being too easy. Not enough glorious battles."

"Maybe try taking them on single handed? Fighting six against one is pretty pathetic," Spool remarked from his spot up in the forest canopy. "I guess I was right, you guys are cowards. Scared?"

The career pack looked up to where Spool was gazing down at them. Getafix readied herself to toss a knife towards him, only for Midas to hold up a hand and shake his head.

"The leaves and branches. They'd get in the way," Midas said, frowning up at Spool. "So, finally showing your face Tag? I was wondering where you'd gotten off to. Having fun climbing around like an animal?"

"Oh sure, tons. It's a lot better than walking around like a mule on the ground," Spool replied, dramatically stretching out. "Can't have been much fun for you guys, seeing that you're already two members down. What happened to the Four girl?"

"Starboard tripped into an acid river and lost most of her skin," Shipwreck spat on the ground, irritated. "Getafix put her out of her misery after that."

Spool couldn't hold back a loud snort.

"Getafix?" Spool asked. "Like, getting a fix of beer or-."

"No you halfwit. It was the name of a Gaul druid!" Getafix said, scowling. "What do you want? No tribute seeks out the careers for no reason."

"Yeah, most of the time they run away screaming. What are you up to?" Shine from One asked.

"Let me answer that with three questions," Spool replied, moving himself slightly higher up within the canopy. "Firstly, have you seen the crocodiles swimming around in the acid? How do you think they're not ending up like Starboard did?"

"Because they're made to be strong." Midas said, shrugging. "It's not something anybody in here needs to ask about."

"Fair," Spool said, shrugging. He suddenly let out a few loud, exaggerated coughs. "Sorry, fly in my throat. Anyway, question two, how are you guys doing for water? Feeling thirsty?"

The pack didn't respond with words, only angry glares. Midas crossed his arms, his muscles bulging as he let out a deep growl.

"I'll take that to mean you're getting lower on water. I guess your outlier recruit can find it for you," Spool mused. "Oh hey, that reminds me, final question… why has your ally from Seven not said anything for a while?"

A cannon fired a moment later. The five careers turned to their ally, only to see she was laying crumpled upon her side, a hatchet buried deeply into the back of her neck. One that had been thrown from a decent distance away.

They turned back to the trees, ready to start trying to attack Spool, but the wily boy had already vanished from sight.

"Spread out! Find him! But when we do, I'll be the one killing him!" Midas barked, pointing his sword towards the overgrowth.

The pack of five thundered off towards the depths of the acidic forest and soon enough were out of sight and hearing range. A few minutes after that Spool let himself drop down to the ground and headed to where Orinoco had hidden himself behind a large tree. He looked like he was a world away.

"Feeling ok?" Spool asked him.

"…No," Orinoco said, shuddering. "I didn't enjoy that Tag."

"I didn't enjoy watching it," Spool agreed. "It's my fault too, I covered up the sound of the hatchet. We did what we had to do."

The boys left the area, trying to keep on telling themselves that. They hoped they'd end up believing it, whether it was true or not.

As Petal's corpse was lifted out by the hovercraft Spool knew that, if nothing else, her skills died with her and the careers had lost all knowledge Petal could've given them the moment she died. In time the effects of this would surely begin to show.

* * *

The water had started to rise little by little.

A week had gone by and ten tributes were still alive. The five member career pack, Spool and Orinoco, the girl from Five with the scorched mouth and the pair from Ten. The audience had been hooked on the personalities of the tributes, the one thing that had kept the gamemakers from pressing the flood button for so long.

The audience within the Capitol were simply entranced by Midas' role as the baddie of the arena, the complete trust and teamwork of the Twos, the salty banter and bickering shared between Shine and Shipwreck, the slow burn romance that has ever so slightly started to unfold between the Tens and, of course, the funny noises the barely aware girl from Five made.

Most of all however, they couldn't look away from Spool and Orinoco as they made their way around the arena, using guile rather than gutting to keep surviving day after day. Whether it was crossing an acidic swampland across logs, working hard to set up a log shelter or even trapping a dear for dinner the pair were able to keep on surviving by their own simple philosophy.

'What do I have, what do I want and how can I use the former to get the latter'.

This and their genuine friendship kept the hearts of the Capitol going out towards them. The way the two boys, one fourteen and one only just fifteen, got along so well and started to play out the roles of valiant knights to fill up the long days made it impossible to not like them. Tag and Orinoco were names that everybody was speaking.

None of the Hunger Games fans realised for a moment that Tag Nylon had never left District Eight in the first place.

But even the way the boys entertained the Capitol did not keep the acidic waters at low level forever. On the tenth day the order was passed to start seriously flooding the arena and force the tributes closer together.

The acid moving three meters higher was all that was needed for forty percent of the arena to become impassable and for Uranium from Five to have her legs horrifically scorched by the acid to the point she could not walk anymore. It was almost a blessing for Uranium when the careers found her and Midas added another kill to his overall score.

It was, however, no blessing for Spool. It was just his alliance against the career pack and the Tens. His options were to attack the Tens, ally with the Tens against the careers or to ignore the Tens and find a way to break apart the pack.

He and Orinoco, hidden high up the top of one of the tallest trees of the arena, stayed up late to try and work out what they could do about the dead end they had started to get backed into.

"Well, Sir Nylon, we cannot simply walk up and fight them. We'd be ever so butchered," Orinoco said, a hand to his chin. "Your squire lacks ideas."

"Fret not squire, your knight lacks a plan as well," Spool replied, gazing up at the starry sky. "We can't fight them. Even one on one would be quite the bother right now."

"So, pray tell, we have to somehow defeat them without fighting?" Orinoco asked, sceptical.

"Aye, it appears that way. The pen is mightier than the sword," Spool said, nodding. "Or, the brain? Whatever, you know what I meant."

The pair stargazed together for a while, occasionally making up constellations within the fake sky. Midnight went by and soon Orinoco sighed, tired and sad.

"I miss home," Orinoco said, lamely. "My parents… my aunt… my twin brother, Ozzy. It's like there's a world away. Just thinking about them hurts."

"I know the feeling," Spool closed his eyes, letting out a sombre sigh of his own. "Mom and dad are probably worried sick about me. I have a twin too you know. I bet T… T…um…"

"What?" Orinoco asked, curious.

Spool paused to rub his tired eyes, forcing a yawn.

"Sorry, kinda just lost my train of thought there. I'm tired," Spool said, swiftly recovering. "As I was saying, I bet that right about now Spool is freaking out about me. He was always the coolest kid on the block, the strong one. He'd know what to do."

"You think?" Orinoco asked.

"I know," Spool replied. "I guess our best plan is… wait for the pack to break apart."

"Can we really wait that long?" Orinoco sighed, pausing to take a swig of his water bottle. "I mean, seriously, can we?"

"I don't think we can," Spool said, his expression hardening. "We may have to find the pack again and nudge them along towards breaking."

* * *

It was just after the midnight that signalled the start of the twelfth day that Spool and Orinoco managed to track down the careers. They were all camped out at the cornucopia, dozing within the silver horn in the comfort of blankets and sleeping bags. Spool and Orinoco peered at them carefully, trying to spot if there was a guard on duty or if anybody was missing.

"If only we had a ranged weapon," Spool said, shaking his head.

Orinoco helped up his hatchet in response to this, only for Spool to shake his head.

"I mean like a crossbow or something," Spool replied. "Guess we'll have to get in closer. We can't kill from a range."

After a few minutes of watching the sleeping careers – during which time it became clear that the guard, whoever it had been, had fallen asleep on duty – Spool made his way out of the overgrowth and started to sneak towards the cornucopia.

"Keep an eye out for the Tens," Spool whispered. "Stay out of sight, this is gonna be deadly."

Orinoco saluted and sunk away into the shadows. The nation watched as Spool carefully made his way towards the sleeping pack of killers, each step silent as the footsteps of a common ant. Soon enough Spool had reached his goal.

He worked incredibly fast.

With time of the essence Spool covered a knife upon the ground in the blood of a wild rabbit he'd hunted for dinner earlier in the day. He didn't dare breath as he placed the dagger within Getafix's hand.

After that he used his own knife to stab Shipwreck, the one sleeping nearest to the exit of the cornucopia, through the throat. He finished his plan by tossing a pebble at Getafix and fleeing into the night, grabbing a metal container of water along the way.

As the cannon boomed Spool and Orinoco were quick to run away, the screams of agony coming from Getafix filling up the night. She'd been the first to awaken and with a knife in her hand. With the cannon waking up the others to the sight of Shipwreck's bloody corpse it had been all too easy for her allies, mainly Midas, to jump to conclusions.

"Two careers down, three to go," Spool whispered.

"And now we're both murderers," Orinoco added. "…Let's just keep walking."

Spool didn't say it out loud, but he was glad Orinoco didn't congratulate him for what he had done. It was done out of pure necessity, not thrills or _fun_.

* * *

On the fourteenth day the cannon fired for the boy from Ten. After he and his district partner barely evaded an angry crocodile mutt they ended up crossing paths with the careers. The girl managed to escape with her life over a series of logs across a wide acid lake while her district partner was killed by Midas' ever more bloodsoaked sword.

But not before leaving Shine with a broken nose, three broken ribs and a badly bleeding left hand. Asterix hadn't walked away unscathed either, having ended up being partly knocked into the acid water midway through the messy battle. The careers were getting very low on water by this point and it was affecting their ability to fight.

At the time of the fight Spool and Orinoco had been four miles away setting down traps to catch wild animals in for food, and perhaps other tributes too. They took a break from their work, collecting water from the trees to rehydrate themselves. Survival within an acidic forest was thirsty work.

"Water's rising again m'lord," Orinoco said, gesturing to a nearby pool of water. "Another meter higher to my count."

"At this rate we'll have less than half the arena left to explore," Spool replied, finishing off the water within the metal container. "Squire, how lethal would you say the acid is?"

"Hm… particularly lethal and then some, m'lord," the miner boy replied. "Only a fool would touch it with their bare hands."

"…And yet, perhaps a smarter man could try and make use of it," Spool said, starting to pace around. "It's like we said, 'what we do have, what do we want and how can we use the former to get the latter'. Right now what we have is craploads of acid."

"What, you thinking of using the acid?" Orinoco paused, looking doubtful. "Really?"

"Really. I can see it being useful if we, you know, weaponize it," Spool said, optimistic. "Although how to scoop some of it up is the question…"

For once Spool lacked a clear idea on what to do. He wasn't going to be able to touch the stuff and the plastic water bottles were likely to dissolve from the sheer corrosive effects of the acid.

"Why not use the metal water bottle?" Orinoco suggested.

"…Orinoco, you're a genius," Spool said with a genuine grin.

Spool carefully used the metal bottle to scoop up half a litre of the acid and capped it. He and Orinoco observed the bottle containing the most potent mixture of the arena.

"What should we do with it Tag?" Orinoco asked.

"Throw it at somebody, I reckon," Spool replied, carefully pocketing the bottle. "Let's not seek them out. Let them come to us this time."

* * *

They arrived during the early morning of the sixteenth day. One moment the boys had been walking through a particularly thick part of the forest. The next moment the Ones had burst out of the bushes with murderous intent.

It was a small mercy that Asterix had split from the pack and was wandering miles away. Small indeed with how many times the Ones nearly hit the boys with their blades in the first minute of fighting alone.

Spool ordered a retreat towards somewhere else, _anywhere_ else where they'd have more of an advantageous position. To his credit the ensuring chase led to Midas getting himself tangled up within vines and bushes, bellowing out a vicious string of curses and threats to his fleeing prey.

"I'll kill you! I'll be in the nightmares of kids from Eight for generations!" Midas roared.

But soon he was out of the chase and only Shine remained to be faced off against. The brawl was fast, messy and brutal as the trio fought in a dark glade of the toxic forest. Spool duelled for his life and Orinoco tried to his to bring Shine to the ground.

Spool lost an ear, Shine lost an eye but Orinoco lost the most of all. With two well aimed knives from Shine he ended up losing his life. Spool had no chance to say a farewell to his brotherly ally, having been punched down to the ground. He had only a moment to watch as the light faded from Orinoco's eyes, two knives buried deeply into his chest. The cannon boomed and his temper was lost.

"Heh… needed years of training to take down somebody three years… younger than you?" Spool asked, spitting out some blood.

"I've had enough of your attitude," Shine said, brandishing her knives. "I'm gonna enjoy shutting you up."

Spool fumbled to take the metal water bottle from his jacket pocket and rapidly unscrew the lid before it became too late.

"I'll enjoy making you do just the opposite," Spool replied.

Shine lunged, but Spool acted faster. The knife was dropped to the dirt when a half-litre of acid splashed across Shine's face. One second passed with her shouting in simple annoyance.

Another second passed with her screaming in the most awful wail of agony, with the seconds afterwards continuing to be much the same. Spool scrambled backwards to avoid Shine falling upon him, her face melting away to reveal her skull underneath. Even as her facial muscles burnt away her screaming didn't cease.

Spool gasped and wheezed as his breath slowly came back to him. He wasted no time in pillaging her of what little she'd had within her duffel bag and moving over to knee by Orinoco's body.

"You were a valiant knight… my best mate. A sock knight to the end," Spool whispered, crossing Orinoco's arms and shutting his eyes. "I'll make them pay."

He never did specify he didn't exactly mean the remaining careers. But, he'd never been honest with the Capitol from the very start, so why start telling the truth now? Even if it took his whole life he'd play a part in making the grand city burn.

But until then, there was a Games to be won.

Spool left the area before Midas could finally catch up and make a claim on his life. As he passes through the ever deeper acidic swamplands he received a sponsor parachute containing what he needed most.

A crossbow.

* * *

The next two days dragged by as the last four tributes wandered around the arena without any destinations in mind. The cameras barely gave Mare from Ten any screentime, the tall cowgirl having become the most forgettable of the final four, albeit not forgettable enough for the gamemakers to resort to mutts. Asterix had his own fans rooting for him, but the fact remained that the bulky boy wasn't doing much aside fighting mutts here and there as he speared his way through the forest.

The cameras mainly focused on Spool and Midas, the knight and the dragon as they were becoming known as. Spool kept himself fed through his own resourcefulness and quick thinking, keeping the audience invested with plans of future businesses he'd be creating once he won the Games. Midas, meanwhile, embraced his role as a monster of the arena and worked hard to track down his last few opponents, keeping a special eye out for Spool. He was more than happy to tell the cameras of his plans to cut off Spool's arms and legs.

He had no idea he didn't even know the name of his rival.

The gamemakers kept raising the acid bit by bit and working to slowly move the tributes together. Mare and Asterix were still a distance apart deeper in the forest, while the clash between Spool and Midas was coming ever closer. With every passing hour they got nearer and nearer.

They met at sunset of the eighteenth day.

"Ready to die?" Midas asked, readying his sword.

"Ready to lose?" Spool replied, balling his fists.

"Not as much as your miner friend was," Midas replied, snickering. "Did Shine make it hurt? Did she butcher him? Did he cry like a slaughtered pig?"

Spool did not rise to the bait, simply waiting for Midas to make his move. The career boy soon grew tired of mocking Spool when it became clear that provoking him into making a mistake was not going to work.

"You're no fun Tag. Whatever, let's do this," Midas got himself in the battle stance he'd perfected over many years. "On your guard!"

Tag responded by whipping out his crossbow and firing an arrow right into Midas' left arm. The career snarled, but wasn't out of the fight by any means.

"Ranged fighting? Coward!" Midas barked.

"Fight smarter, not harder Midas," Spool replied, backing away to a nearby tree as he loaded in another arrow.

Midas surged forwards, much faster than Spool had expected him to. Spool dodged out of the way of what would've been a lethal sword swing, dropping his crossbow. He scrambled up, arming himself with his sword sword, and watched as Midas tore his sword free of the tree's bark. Water cascaded from within, briefly stumping Midas.

"…The water was in the trees," Midas whispered, stunned.

"I worked it out weeks ago," Spool replied, making a few fancy movements with his short sword. "If it's a hand to hand fight you want, it's one you'll get."

"How generous of you," Midas replied, sneering.

Blade clashed against blade, sparks flying every time a bladelock ensued. Sometimes Spool would force Midas back, other times Midas would sent Spool stumbling. Both were soon sporting non-fatal wounds and a look of tiredness in their eyes. With Spool's smaller size and Midas' considerable dehydration they were practically equal in their combat abilities.

Eventually, though, Midas managed a nasty slash across Spool's chest. Any deeper and it would surely have been a mortal wound. Spool staggered in agony while Midas panted in triumph and exhaustion.

"Not bad," Midas said, taking a step backwards from his almost beaten rival. "Not bad at all. Ha, the strongest boy from Eight in years failed to kill me. I'll be a monster in the minds of your district's kids for years! None of them will forget what comes next."

Midas readied himself for the final killing blow.

"Gonna run Tag?" Midas asked, smirking. "Fourth isn't that good, you know."

"Oh, I know," Spool said, wheezing. He narrowed his eyes. "…But first is better."

Before Midas could react Spool had barrelled at him elbow first with the last of his energy. Midas had expected his wounded opponent to try and run away, not to keep fighting despite how reckless and foolish such an action was. Midas was sent backwards for a full two meters… exactly enough for him to fall backwards on a muddy bank and into the acidic river that they'd duelled beside.

Spool grabbed up Midas' fallen bag as the career screamed and thrashed around in immense agony. He was able to bandage himself up and apply some wound sealer with Midas' gear before the career, now horribly scorched and losing some of his skin, got back onto dry land. He was hardly able to crawl along after his terrible dunking.

"It ends now," Spool said, picking his short sword back up.

"I'm ok with that," Midas said, spitting out blood. "If you kill me, it'll be a glorious battle that'll never be forgotten. Whether you win or lose we'll never be forgotten! I'll never be forgotten! My name will go down as the most powerful career of these Games, the one who slaughtered so many tributes on the way! My name will be like that of the grim reaper within Eight. Go on, kill me… start a legend…"

Spool paused for a moment. He narrowed his eyes again as he approached Midas. The beaten career smirked to himself, seeming assured that he'd go down as a glorious warrior.

He was stumped when Spool dropped his bag of supplies in front of him.

"What?" Midas said, lost.

"You're no rival of mine. You're no ferocious beast either. Certainly not some dragon that fought a knight," Spool said, already turning to leave. "You were just some thug who tried to mug me early on in my life, one with an attitude problem. One that needed years of training to be able to kill innocent people, like my poor district partner whose only crime was crying because she was scared. Goodbye Midas, I'm sure your sponsors will restore you. I'm not gonna end you; _you're not worth killing_."

Spool left the area with Midas' indignant, furious screaming and shouting echoing behind him. After how much the boy's arrogance and sadism had annoyed him he felt this was a suitable way of messing with him. Simply act like Midas truly did not matter at all to him. What better way was there to mess with the most arrogant of men?

"Better head to the cornucopia," Spool muttered to himself. "Nameless thug did a number on me."

* * *

The tribute headcount was down to three as the nineteenth day arrived in the arena. Midas had ended up dying the most forgettable death of the entire Games, a random and pointless loss against a crocodile mutt, and already the Capitol citizens hardly had anything much to recall about him. He was old news.

All eyes were on the last three tributes, especially Spool. While wounded, the small boy had managed to reach the silver horn and use what little was left to get himself back into more or less stable-ish shape. He was limping, but alive.

The journey within the arena came to an end towards sunset of the nineteenth day. Spool had been walking through the forest, keeping an ear out for his last two opponents, when noise entered his remaining ear.

Shouting and yelling.

Spool limped off in the direction of the noises as best as his wounded body could manage. He arrived just in time to see Mare landing a brutal punch to Asterix's throat and then upper cutting the boy into the acidic water. It didn't take long for him to die after that.

It didn't take long for Mare to die either. Spool took his chance to fire an arrow from his crossbow right towards her before she even knew he was there. The arrow pierced her throat easily. Spool flinched as Mare dropped to the ground choking and gasping, her body going very still mere seconds later.

The cannon boomed and the trumpets rang out. Spool sighed in sheer relief as he casually tossed away his weapons down towards the ground.

"I said I'd be back home in two weeks brother. Seems like I was wrong," Spool said, leaning against a tree for some support. "But I wasn't wrong when I said I'd be home. I'll see you soon."

* * *

The interview with Caesar after his victory went fine for Spool. In fact, it was deemed as one of the most successful interviews performed by a victor. The Capitol loved how their newest victor 'Tag' had such natural charisma, easily able to play to a crowd.

Similarly, the after-party at Snow's mansion went off without a hitch. Spool pressed nobody's buttons and managed to remain chill and polite for the entire night, as much as he wanted to curse the Capitol citizens for their use of 'vomit cola' to ensure they could keep eating.

It was during his final night before going home that something came up. But it wasn't the Capitol who discovered Spool's twin switch secret – they'd remain in the dark for many, _many_ years yet to come – nor was it anybody who would pose him any kind of harm nor risk.

It was an old acquaintance of his.

Spool had been relaxing in his room at the tribute building, almost ready to call it a night and call his whole scam against the Capitol a complete success. But then, there was a knock at his door.

"Who could that be? I thought everybody was sleeping," Spool said to himself as he approached the door.

He opened the door, finding himself surprised to see one of the victors from a different district looking back at him. Her short height, her long ginger hair, her freckles… it was hard not to recognise Lammy Phyronix.

"Good evening," Lammy said, absentmindedly wringing her shirt. "Congratulations on your victory Tag."

"Oh, thanks Lammy," Spool said, already relaxing. "You're not, uh… furious I killed your tribute?"

"Not happy, but not angry. You did what you needed to… same as me when it was my time in the arena," Lammy said, glancing to the side. "I'm gonna make it a yearly thing, congratulating the victor. I was gonna do it last year, but…"

"Mascara was too scary?" Spool guessed.

"Oh my goodness, yes!" Lammy exclaimed, her eyes wide. "Now she's dead, and… um… I don't know…"

Spool soon invited Lammy into his room so they could talk without risk of waking up the other victors from Eight. It started off slow, simple discussion about their young lives and remembering the fallen tributes who had died along the way that year, but before long Spool made his one mistake.

He relaxed.

"It's good to see you again Lammy," Spool said, smiling at his new friend. "Been too long since we last saw each other."

"Hm, when did we meet?" Lammy paused, thinking hard. "Wait, do you mean the victory tour? Tag, I don't remember seeing you there."

"No, before that. When you were eleven and I was nine. You and your dad came to District Eight for some trapping job. Nasty dogs were on the loose and the peacekeepers couldn't handle it. You came to watch one of the puppet shows my gang put on," Spool smiled at the memory from a relatively simpler time. "We spoke after the show while the other boys put the puppets away."

Lammy's eyes lightened up, the memory coming back to her. She couldn't help but smile at her fellow victor.

"Aww, that's right. That was a lovely afternoon. I never though I'd see you again… wait… no, hang on…" Lammy trailed off, starting to look confused and then looking at Spool in sheer amazement.

"What? What is it?" Spool glanced behind him. "…Something on my face? Is it the dyed fringe being too much?"

"No, it's just… Tag, you never spoke to me. You stood back because you were shy. Spool was the twin who took the chance to say hello," Lammy gazed into Spool's eyes, the pieces all coming together. "…You're not Tag at all, are you? You're Spool."

"Ssshhhh!" Spool frantically gestured for Lammy to be quiet. "Ssshh! Lammy, if they hear that-!"

"Don't worry, I don't think the tribute bedrooms have anything in them. They did a bit of renovating while you were in the arena and I don't think the avoxes got around to bugging the place," Lammy paused, looking at Spool in awe. "…You tricked the Capitol."

"I did, and they'll never know about it," Spool insisted. "The best scams are the ones nobody realised were pulled on them. I guess I was foolish to let my guard down… but you won't tell anybody, will you?"

Lammy observed the younger victor in front of her, now looking very nervous indeed. The trapper girl warmly smiled, patting him on the back.

"It'll be our little secret," Lammy promised. "I won't tell anybody. Not Stallion, not any tributes I mentor or victors I bring back. Nobody."

"Thank you Lammy," Spool said, weakly chuckling. "I owe you one."

"Oh, you do? Well in that case…" Lammy gave Spool a cheeky look. "Your victor stipend will have gone through now. Order us some takeout will you? I'm starving."

Spool couldn't help but laugh alongside his new favourite victor.

"I'll do you one better, I'll buy us some drinks too," Spool said, snickering. "A toast to me, the magnificent boy who tricked the Capitol."

"I'll drink to that," Lammy agreed with a soft giggle.

* * *

Spool returned home victorious to District Eight the very next day. The train pulled into the station under the light of the setting sun where a massive crowd gathered to meet him with loud applause.

Of course, Spool only had eyes for one person at the moment of his arrival. The real Tag Nylon.

Spool leapt off the station's platform and out into the crowd the moment his brother called to him. The twins, finally reunited, embraced tightly.

"Told you I had it all under control, 'Spool'," Spool whispered.

"I knew you had it in you 'Tag'," Tag whispered.

With that, the celebrations began. Street parties, loud singing, even a few peacekeepers got in on the action and got themselves a bit tipsy on duty. It made it much easier for them to be bribed to allow the partying to continue all throughout the night.

Spool, meanwhile, was content to relax upon the balcony of the new mansion he'd won for himself and his family as part of his victory. He stood beside Tag, leaning on the railings and gazing out at the district beyond the Victor Village. It was full of life and joy, for now at least.

"So…" Spool began.

"So…" Tag continued.

"Are we gonna have to swap names now?" Spool asked. "They healed up all of my injuries, no scars or anything left, so there's no way they can tell us apart."

"I don't mind swapping. I mean, we're still us no matter what we're called. We're the Nylon brothers to the end," Tag said, smiling. "I just… bro, you tricked them. _You scammed the Capitol_."

"Don't forget that I got away with it as well," Spool said, smirking smugly. "But what else was I gonna do? Let my brother die? Not happening."

"Thanks Spool," Tag smiles, tears welling up in his eyes. "I owe you my life."

"Are you crying?" Spool asked.

"No way, just dust," Tag lied.

"You're crying," Spool said, shaking his head.

"Am not!" Tag huffed.

"Not too late for me to pretend not to know you," Spool teased.

The twins laughed, fist bumping over the job well done. The Games were won, the Capitol remained in the dark and life would go on. The only issue… Tag's name was out of the reaping bowl and Spool's name remained within.

"If your name comes out… what do we do?" Tag asked. "Should I take your place like you did for me? If it worked once, it could work again."

Spool shook his head. He gave Tag one of his winning smirks, the kind he always put on when he was ever so sure of an idea working out.

"I won the Games once, I can win them again," Spool said, confident as could be. "Just you watch… I mean, if the worst happens."

"You're a legend bro," Tag said, smiling.

The twins became silent, watching the fireworks that filled up the starry night. For a while, all was peaceful. All seemed perfect.

"By the way, mom and dad realised as soon as we got home from the reaping that we swapped places. They knew it was me within an hour," Tag gave Spool a sheepish look. "You're grounded for a month."

"Dammit!" Spool cursed, lightly smacking his hand on the balcony. "Seriously?"

* * *

Katniss and Peeta soon finished holding a silence for Spool, or rather 'Tag', and continued their slow walk down the long street hand in hand.

They soon came to the face of another boy imprinted into the sidewalk. He had long, shaggy hair that went past his shoulders, wide eyes that gleamed with life and an almost devilish looking smirk plastered across his face.

Katniss and Peeta exchanged a glance.

"Wasn't he the last victor District Nine ever had?" Katniss asked.

"I think so, yeah," Peeta said, looking particularly unease. "He was the one who tried to drown me… I had to… had to…"

Katniss put a hand upon Peeta's shoulder comfortingly.

"You did what you had to do, not what you wanted to do," Katniss said, gently.

"Yeah… thanks," Peeta took a deep breath. "Of all victors for me to end up killing first… I never thought it'd be Tabbock the magician."

* * *

And there we are, District Eight's third victor! I always found the idea of twins pulling a switch to trick the Capitol as a novel sort of idea that had potential to it. If they had never known of the twins in any particular detail before the Games, they'd surely fail to recognise if they had the wrong one, right? After all, from a glance twins tend to be rather… identical. I really enjoyed writing Spool and his charismatic way of playing the Games. As Scrooge McDuck would say, fight smarter not harder! District Three may have all the book smarts, but who says Eight doesn't have some street smarts? Hope you guys found Spool's victory fun to read. Stay tuned for more! The tale of the District Nine Male from Catching Fire looms very near.

* * *

 **Stats**

 **District 1:** Peridot Gaudy (8th Games), Crystal McCree (14th Games), Bronze Marley (19th Games), Crown Martins (24th Games), Dollar Dettwieller (32nd Games), Mascara Court (41st Games)

 **District 2:** Baron Overwhill (4th Games), Runa Peace (7th Games), Olga Machete (10th Games), Rook Valiant (17th Games), Boulder Atherston (20th Games), Vercingetorix Carnby (25th Games), Dragon Batofel (27th Games), Rhyder Overwhill (39th Games)

 **District 3:** Honorius Perthshire (5th Games), Pi Orbit (22nd Games), Beetee Latier (37th Games)

 **District 4:** Museida Selkirk (3rd Games), Mags Flanagan (11th Games), Tide Luther (23rd Games), Librae Ogilvy (35th Games)

 **District 5:** Shunt Gaspar (12th Games), Isobel Sparks (18th Games), Crimson Flanders (29th Games), Porter Tripp (38th Games)

 **District 6:** Chassis Macalister (31st Games)

 **District 7:** Pliny Aransio (2nd Games), Fir Buzz (9th Games), Jack Tylos (21st Games), Snag Nakamura (34th Games)

 **District 8:** Woof Casino (16th Games), Paige Murphy (30th Games), Spool Nylon (42nd Games)

 **District 9:** Mizar Aldjoy (1st Games), Gwenith Rosebud (13th Games), Teff Withers (28th Games), Laurel Flamsteel (36th Games)

 **District 10:** Stallion March (26th Games), Lammy Phyronix (40th Games)

 **District 11:** Bear Redfoot (15th Games), Seeder Howell (33rd Games)

 **District 12:** Duke Saint-Rose (6th Games)


	44. Tabbock Summers

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the Hunger Games. They belong to Suzanne Collins.

 **Note:** Another victor, another chapter of watching teens kill each other! Every District has their so-called black sheep, and this guy certainly fits the bill for District Nine. It was fun coming up with ideas for another of canon's least talked about victors whose only claim to fame is being drowned after a botched attack on Peeta. Hope you all enjoy reading the tale of Tabbock!

* * *

Katniss and Peeta gazed down at Tabbock's imprinted face, the latter particularly uneasy.

"He tried to kill me before I killed him. Real or not real," Peeta asked.

"Real," Katniss said, her tone assuring and light. "He was desperate, we all were. He seemed to think you were the best target… not sure why. You were never a killer like most others were."

"Maybe that's why. He didn't expect me to fight back," Peeta said, closing his eyes. "It was insane."

"Ironic too. You made the magician disappear," Katniss added.

Peeta gave Katniss a firm look, slowly shaking his head. Katniss quietened down pretty fast after that, knowing that there were times where it was really better to just say nothing.

* * *

 **43** **rd** **Annual Hunger Games**

 **Name:** Tabbock Summers

 **Gender:** Male

 **District:** 9

 **Age:** 16

 **Kills:** 5

* * *

 **The Pre-Show Warm-Up**

Every District with more than two victors – so basically, all of them aside from Twelve – has their own black sheep who does not really fit the mould. One has Crown, Two has Rhyder, Five has Adrendellian III, Ten have Pasture… the list goes on, really.

District Nine has Tabbock.

The Nines first four victors all followed a sort of pattern, one could say. Shy farm boy Mizar, ever so timid wallflower Gwenith, quiet and mellow Teff, homeless and morose Laurel… they were all quiet people and were all humble. The idea of them having big egos simply wasn't something anybody who have even a passing awareness of them – so, basically all of Panem – would entertain for even a second.

Tabbock was nothing like them.

The last victor Nine ever had before their victor drought that would never be recovered from – unless one happens to count the boy who escaped the tribute building some years later – was a far cry from all of the other victors he'd grown up hearing about. He was arrogant, he was smug, he showed a notable lack of empathy when it came to other people's pain. He did not by any means relish in hurting people, no sir, but he simply did not feel much of anything when watching the Games during mandatory viewing.

Most of all, Tabbock was a magician. An aspiring one anyway. To him, life was one massive performance all about keeping the crowd entertained until the curtains finally came down. He had an excellent knack for showmanship, tricks and deception. It was an outright farce for him to put on a grand show and perform some tricks. Whether they involved cards, a disappearing box, sawing a person in half without killing them and even swallowing knives he could always pull off an excellent performance.

His district did not much like him. It wasn't just his constant disruptiveness in class or his way of embarrassing those called up on stage to assist with a trick. It was how Tabbock would constantly fall behind on work in the fields or outright ditch it if it meant a chance to perform for a crowd. The peacekeepers did not take kindly to this.

They also saw that whipping did not seem to bother Tabbock as it put him in front of a crowd, something that he adored. It became common sense to just whip others in his place, in hopes that turning a crowd against him would perhaps make him stop being a little shit and do his damn job.

It did not work.

Naturally, when the reaping of the Forty Third Hunger Games arrived and Tabbock's name was called nobody was sad to see him go. Tabbock himself did not seem sad to be going into the arena either. It was impossible to miss the fact he was ecstatic at the chance to be on TV.

"Keep your eyes out for the television debut of Tabbock the Terrific!" he had announced to the crowd.

The sheer look of excitement he had about going into the Games unnerved his district, especially the other victors. All four of them had suffered in the arena and found the idea of liking the chance to be in them nothing short of a horrifying concept.

Mizar, as the original victor, went in as unprepared as possible and even now felt he only won due to sheer luck and because he ran away from the opening melee out of cowardice.

Gwenith, the sole volunteer Nine ever had, still had nightmares about her own Games. She often wept for her long dead friends Prongs and Shrimp.

Teff still had nightmares about being lost in the darkness of the sea caves. The deaf victor was terrified of the dark, always would be.

Laurel, having been the prisoner of a particularly nasty pack of careers, was unable to stay near the career victors for more than a few minutes without panicking. She'd never move past the memories.

All of them felt concerned that Tabbock treated it all like one massive show and showed no fear. His joy was clearly not feigned. Nonetheless, after some discussion, Mizar stepped up to mentor him. Somebody had to do it and he felt he had it in him to mentor for at least another fifteen years.

But really, throughout the pre-Games events, he found himself not really having to do much of anything to help Tabbock. The boy had it all under control from the get-go.

He was competent in training, both in the basics of fighting and in survival. This and his surprising knack for the kusarigama earned him a training score of eight with no problems at all.

But the training wasn't where Tabbock truly shined. It was the interview with Caesar Flickerman.

It was one of those years where there were only four careers, all of them powerful brutes, and fairly scrawny outliers. All of them had their fans amongst the diehards, as was normal, but none of them outside the career pack had really caught the eyes of the audience. Maybe the gothic boy from Eight, but that was a hard maybe.

When Tabbock appeared on stage in a puff of smoke with a declaration it was time to make some magic, all doubt over who would be the audience favourite was put to rest.

Tabbock smirked from all the applause. His district had been referred to as boring ever since Laurel's victory and he was about to change that.

The interview was only a few minutes long, but what an interview it was! Tabbock took a very unique approach; rather than talking with Caesar he put on a magical act for the audience to enjoy while Caesar watched from the side and occasionally was called upon to assist with a trick. Tabbock held nothing back and with his array of tricks had the audience eating out of the palm of his hand.

A disappearing box.

Finding a hidden card within Caesar's bright orange hair.

Faking the act of cutting his own hand off.

Making a ball hover.

Seemingly reading Caesar's mind.

He exited the stage with another puff of smoke and a thunderous applause behind him. Nobody really paid any mind to the tributes from Ten, Eleven and Twelve after that. They wanted more of the magician!

They certainly get more of the magician. Tabbock watched the remaining interviews with a smirk, knowing that he had all eyes firmly upon himself for the Games ahead.

He had plenty more tricks left to show off and this time he had no reason to hold himself back from making them absolutely deadly.

* * *

 **Trick #1: The Ace of Blood**

The arena that year was another urban city. This one, however, was not abandoned. Indeed, it was filled with bright neon lights, sights and more besides. The whole place was absolutely brimming with life from the sidewalks up towards the tops of the tallest towers.

Tabbock could only grin at the arena he'd be able to play around in. He couldn't have asked for a better arena than this.

"Let's make some magic happen!" Tabbock announced for the cameras as the countdown began. "Welcome to the show ladies and gentlemen! Welcome, welcome, welcome!"

Every other tributes stared at Tabbock like he was out of his mind. Several of them genuinely thought the magician was insane from the start, others weren't so sure if he was just a good actor. The girl from Seven thought it was both.

"I have so many wonderful tricks planned for you all, yes indeed! Tabbock the Terrific won't rest until all you viewers are smiling," Tabbock declared, taking out his tribute token – a single playing card. "For my first trick I am going to need the assistance of the delightful Bodhi from Four."

Tabbock turned to the fourteen year old boy from the fishing district right as the countdown reached forty five seconds.

"Tell the audience, what card do I holds here in my hand?" Tabbock asked.

"Uh… the ace of spades?" Bodhi said, stumped.

Tabbock held the card up for all the cameras to see.

"The boy speaks the truth! But what if I told you he was only half right and that I can transform this card into another card entirely?" Tabbock continued. "Watch and be amazed as, with the magic words, the ace of spades becomes an entirely different kind of ace!"

Tabbock spoke complete and utter gibberish until the timer had counted down to twenty seconds.

"The card has been gifted with magic of the Gods! Now all that remains is the final step of the spell," Tabbock took aim with his card. "Abra-ka-bassa-boom!"

Tabbock threw the card into the air like a bolt of lighting. All cameras were on the card as it began to curve in a wide arc like a boomerang and come back towards Tabbock. All the while the countdown ticked every lower.

The card came back, but not at Tabbock. It sliced right into Bodhi's neck like a razor. He collapsed with a dying scream, blood pouring out of his open neck like a fountain.

"There we have it! The ace of spades became the ace of blood!" Tabbock exclaimed, taking a bow. "Thank you, thank you!"

The gong rang and Tabbock charged into the fray around the cornucopia without another word, ready to grab up some supplies and run for his life into the neon filled streets.

* * *

 **Trick #2: Sawn in Half**

Seven had died in the opening bloodbath, none of which were careers. The pack of four had started to make their way around the city arena in search of their prey, none of them wanting to let things play out for anywhere close to how long the Ninth Games had many years ago.

Tabbock didn't want to be stuck in the city for that long either. He knew that the best of shows didn't let themselves drag on for longer than they had any right to. That was why he kept an eye out for tributes to hunt and his mind open for any possible magic tricks he could use to keep the audience entertained.

The opportunity presented itself when, after stumbling through a tool shop and acquiring a large hacksaw during his retreat from the cornucopia, he spotted the girl from Seven running through an alleyway clutching a large bag of supplies.

Supplies that the magician wanted.

He carefully followed behind her for over a mile until she came to the entrance to a sewer system. He watched as the lumberjill surveyed the pipe system warily. He noticed when she saw she'd never be able to crawl through it and prepared to leave.

He ran forwards and shoved her into the pipe system. As the girl thrashed and kicked around in a mad fit of panic and adrenaline Tabbock began to speak to the cameras once again.

"Welcome back to more of Tabbock the Terrific's show! I hope you didn't mind waiting in your seats while the next trick was prepared," Tabbock sang, waving to an imaginary audience. "You saw the Ace of Blood. A fine trick, but a bit… basic, right? Well, no worries, this next trick is much more interesting!"

Tabbock took the hacksaw from where he had clipped it to his belt, raising it up for the audience to see.

"As you can all see, it's just a normal hacksaw," as Tabbock said this the girl from Seven began to struggle and scream far louder. "But normal or not, it serves its purpose for my second trick of the show. With the help of my lovely assistant here I will now perform a beloved classic trick… the act of sawing somebody in half! Pay attention, don't blink and see if you can spot the magic going on here."

With that being said Tabbock lowered the hacksaw and began sawing with a look of absolute focus. The nation could only in sheer horror, and amazed glee in the case of the Capitol, as Tabbock serenely sawed the girl in half over the course of ten minutes. The girl passed out from agony, shock and blood loss only ninety seconds in and the cannon fired after five minutes, but Tabbock did not pause until the job had been completed. He stepped away from the now halved girl who had once been a real person with feelings and took a calm bow.

"Thank you, thank you," Tabbock said as he rose, waving to a camera. "You're all too kind! Now, did you spot the trick going on there?"

Tabbock cupped his ear, as if listening to the audience. He began to casually pour some water over his bloodied hands to wash away the Seven girl's fluids.

"Wrong! The trick here wasn't magic, but a case of misdirection," Tabbock said, winking to his fans. "While I was sawing my assistant into an endless dreamland you all failed to see the real magic going on. Take a look."

Tabbock stood back and gestured to all the blood on the ground. It had managed to stain the ground in the image of the Capitol's insignia. Tabbock took a bow and dashed off deeper into the arena. He knew not to linger when plenty of tributes were still alive.

The Capitol cheered and applauded for the current most popular tribute in the arena, District Seven snarled and seethed at the monstrous torturer they'd be forced to watch kill one of their own while Mizar could only stare at the screen in horror, a bucket in his lap for him to vomit in.

He was starting to regret signing up to mentor this boy.

* * *

 **Trick #3: The Floating Tribute**

Ten tributes were still alive and breathing by the time the fifth day in the arena arrived. The careers, Tabbock and a scattering of others from across the outlying districts. Tabbock's district partner was among the dead, but the sheer cruelty of the magician's methods of murder made it seem as though the girl had gotten off lightly in the end.

Tabbock's third trick would further confirm this.

In the days since he sawed the girl from Seven in half Tabbock had been relatively quiet, keeping the audience invested with simple card tricks and slight of hand, but he was firm in telling his audience that none of this was his third 'real trick'. Merely a way to pass the time until he had the chance to perform it.

While wandering around, axe in hand, Tabbock found the opportunity falling into his lap when he saw the small boy from Ten wandering into the neon fairground towards the centre of the city. Tabbock watched him walk past a massive display of helium balloons and quickly declared to the audience that the time had arrived for his third trick.

Tabbock wasted no time. He crept after the farm boy and carefully snuck his way ahead of him from the cover of buildings. At just the right moment Tabbock leapt out smacked him with the handle of his axe. In an instant the boy was unconscious.

Tabbock had him right where he wanted him. Or, rather, about a hundred feet from such a place.

Tabbock lightly hummed to himself as he dragged the unconscious boy over to the balloon stand and raised his hands to get the attention of the audience. The gamemakers turned down the sound effects around the magician, playing along with his demented magic show.

"Thank you," Tabbock struck a comical pose. "The time has come for the third trick, a trick that my lovely assistant will help me with. What's your name son?"

Tabbock crudely puppeteer the unconscious body of the boy, making a total mockery of the classic art of ventriloquism.

"I'm District Ten Male!" the boy 'said'.

"What a name only a mother could love!" Tabbock exclaimed. "Would you like to fly?"

The boy 'clapped' his hands. "Oh yes sir, yes please!"

"Who would I be to deny my assistant of what he wants?" Tabbock remarked as he grabbed the balloons from the balloon stand. "This takes focus, precision and a little time. Patience fans, you're going to enjoy what you're waiting for."

Time passed quickly. Tabbock had soon managed to die a total of ten thousand helium balloons to the poor poor, tying the strings around his neck. Tabbock flashed a cheeky grin to the camera.

"Watch and be amazed! A tribute shall, for the first time, take to the sky by the sheer power of balloons and magic!" Tabbock released his hold on the boy. "Fly! Make us all proud! Ta-da~!"

The sheer number of balloons filled with helium was enough for the particularly small boy to be lifted into the air by his neck. He was wheezing and choking in his unconscious state in moments. After he was a hundred feet in the air he finally woke up, breaking into a breathless fit of panic. Alas, it didn't take long after that for him to finally choke to death and his lifeless corpse to continue floating higher and higher into the sky.

"Thank you, thank you! You're all simply too kind!" Tabbock said as he took a bow. "That's why they call me Tabbock the Terrific, grand tricks just like that one! Stay tuned for my next one!"

Tabbock left the area humming a tune once again, oblivious to how the four careers had been watching the entire magic show. The boy from Two lightly applauded, having very much enjoyed the show, while the others looked particularly freaked out as they watched Tabbock disappear around a corner.

"Ok… we'll kill that one in his sleep, yeah?" the girl from One suggested. "Let's not give him any chance, you've all seen what he's capable of."

"Got that right," the boy from One muttered, shaking his head. "Outlying freak."

"Points for creativity though," the girl from Two added.

Several loud pops sounded from above and a moment later the body of the boy from Ten hit the hard ground, his blood splattering around the area and some of it onto the career pack. They all cried out in disgust.

Their cries were not missed by Tabbock. He quickly evacuated the area and sought out shelter at the far side of the neon city. Loopy as he was, he was not mad enough to try to take out all four careers at once.

* * *

 **Trick #4: The Explosive Mixture**

Day eight bought plenty of excitement with it. The gamemakers unleashed a pack of robot mutts into the arena to cause some chaos and start driving the final seven tributes towards the centre of the arena for the finale in the next few days.

During the chaos the girl from One ended up being gutted by a particularly pissed off robot with her three allies being separated from each other. The boys soon managed to find each other, while the girl from Two was left to wander around all alone for an hour or two.

She found the gothic boy from Eight and was quickly on the attack, never one to back away from killing another tribute.

They were found by Tabbock who'd just managed to evade a trio of nasty robots. He was more than happy to help the boy from Eight kill the particularly foul mouthed career.

"By all mean, you do it," Tabbock said, gesturing to the girl from Two as she lay squirming in agony. "I don't need sponsors, you probably do."

The boy from Eight, Ripford, was more than willing to bring his club down on the fallen girl. She had, after all, attacked him first and messed up his goth make-up. The cannon boomed as the boys surveyed each other.

"Wanna team up for a bit?" Tabbock asked. "With the career boys out there we'd do better together for at least a day."

"Eh, sure," Ripford said. "Not like I had any better plans."

"That's the spirit!" Tabbock said, laughing.

The new alliance travelled together for the rest of the day, slowly but surely making their way closer to the central plaza of the arena where the finale would unfold.

Ripford also made it his way closer to his death, as Tabbock mouthed to the audience it was time for trick number four.

It began as soon as the next cannon fired, leaving only four tributes within the arena. Tabbock had no idea who it was – it had actually been the boy from Two being shoved out of a ten storey window by the girl from Five during her escape from the careers – but didn't waste time dwelling on it.

He had a magic trick to perform and started it off by knocking Ripford out before he could react. He raise up his arms, a cocky grin adorning his face.

"The show continues!" Tabbock declared as he paced back and forth. "This trick isn't just magic, it's a little scientific too! But I'll need your help for this one to work, fans. Please, if you would be so kind, could you sponsor me some of the finest coca cola in the land, the most powerful of experimental mentos and a plastic funnel? The show can go on once I have them all."

It took hardly any time for a parachute to land containing all of the supplies that Tabbock needed. After thanking his loyal fans he set right to work with putting the feeding funnel into Ripford's mouth and mixing the volatile ingredients. In the space of mere seconds he was quickly pouring it into the boy from Eight's mouth and assisting him in swallowing it down.

Foam began to spill from Ripford's mouth in barely a few moments. Tabbock quickly legged it out of the back alley they were hiding in, watching from the safety of the nearby street as the extremely reactive Capitol created ingredients finally reached their ultimate reaction.

Ripford exploded, his innards showering around the alleyway and staining it a horrible shade of red. The smell of death and meat filled the air as the cannon fired. Tabbock took a bow, imagining the applause and roses being thrown his way.

"Thank you, thank you! You're such a wonderful audience, yes you are!" Tabbock exclaimed. "But I still have one last trick to perform for you. The very best trick that I know. All I ask is that things run on for another twenty four hours so I can get it all ready. Stay tuned!"

Tabbock returned to pillage what supplies Ripford had and then went on his way, still lightly humming. The gamemakers turned to their Head Gamemaker, a bulky man by the name of Petrov, for what they should do.

"Give him the time he needs," the man said, shrugging. He smirked devilishly. "I think he's earned the right to have some extra time."

Petrov snapped his fingers, a thought occurring to him.

"Send him a magician hat, cape and wand. Why not help him look the part?" Petrov suggested.

* * *

 **Trick #5: The Disappearing Box**

The tenth day started with Lionel from One dispatching the girl from Five with his bar mace. As the girl lay crumpled on the concrete Lionel quickly counted on his hands, working out who else was left aside from himself. He sighed deeply as soon as he worked out who it was.

"Of course… it'd have to be him wouldn't it," Lionel muttered, shaking his head. "Whatever, I can do this."

Time passed slowly throughout the day, the morning gradually turning into the evening as Lionel wandered around in search of his last opponent. But he couldn't find Tabbock anywhere, the magician having seemingly decided to be quiet for the first time in his life.

Lionel was about to settle down for dinner when he finally spotted the other tribute standing across the central plaza of the city. With a cry of triumph and bloodlust Lionel dashed off in hot pursuit of his prey. Crazy magician or not, he wanted Tabbock dead.

Tabbock didn't bother fighting against the career. He ran for his life through the plaza and into a grand theatre. Lionel chased after him until he sae Tabbock jump into a box and slam the door behind him. Lionel just laughed, ready to open it up and kill the magician.

He opened the box, seeing nobody inside.

"What the fuck?" Lionel muttered, scratching his head. "Where'd he go?"

Lionel yelled as he was roughly shoved from behind into the box. The door was slammed shut and locked tightly before he could get himself back up. As he yelled and bashed against the inside of the disappearing box grand music began to play from outside.

The show began as Tabbock strutted out on stage in his magician attire.

"Welcome, welcome, welcome! I'm so glad to see you all!" Tabbock exclaimed to the empty theatre. "Alas, the show is soon coming to an end. I know, I'm upset as well. I've been having so much fun performing for you all! So, how about we end things with a bang as I show you my final trick?"

Tabbock moved towards the disappearing box, gesturing grandly towards it.

"My lovely assistant, the boy from One, is inside of this box," Tabbock explained. "And below it…"

Tabbock pulled a lever at the side of the stage. A furnace system revealed itself from underneath the box.

"A massive fire device. That'd leave anybody hot under the collar!" Tabbock paused to laugh. "From above…"

Tabbock pulled another lever. A grand piano was lowered into sight above the disappearing box, suspended by a weak looking rope.

"A massive piano. That'd hurt if it landd on your head," Tabbock mused. "Ah, and from the sides you ask? Well…"

Tabbock pulled a third lever. Two dart cannons moved onto stage, aiming directly at the disappearing box.

"My lovely assistant has a total of sixty seconds to escape from the box and keep fighting me. If he runs out of time he might die!" Tabbock put his hands to his cheeks in faux horror. "So suspenseful! But, if he ever paid any attention to one of my magic shows back in District Nine he will know exactly what to do. His time starts… now!"

Tabbock pulled a fourth lever and stood back as all of the death-traps started to slowly activate. Lionel screamed, yelled fought and even pleaded from within the disappearing box. Alas, the metal box held firm from all of the smashed he sent at the walls of his prison. Time ticked by, lower and lower, with his struggling getting weaker as he became more and more exhausted.

"Say it with me now," Tabbock said, a victorious smirk on his face. "Ten! Nine! Eight!"

Tabbock continued to count down towards zero. Right before he finished Lionel sobbed for his mother.

In one moment the box became consumed by fire, filled with upwards of three dozen poisonous darts and smashed by a heavy piano. The wreckage was swiftly aflame and blood leaked out from within. The cannon boomed only a moment later.

Tabbock took a bow at centre stage as the trumpets finally rang out. But this time he wasn't just imagining the applause. The gamemakers had decided to filter in the sounds of the screaming and cheering Capitolites into the arena for Tabbock to listen to. They even made a few roses and coins get lightly blasted onto the stage for the victorious magician.

"You've been a wonderful audience Panem!" Tabbock shouted, nothing short of glee upon his face. "I'll be seeing you all in six months with more tricks, more surprises and more wonders throughout my victory tour! I'm Tabbock the Terrific, and I'll see you all next time!"

With a final bow Tabbock left the stage and the mangled corpse of his last opponent behind, heading towards the hovercraft that waited for him outside the building. He laughed, knowing the good life and all the fame he had ever wanted now awaited him with open arms.

Up in the mentoring area all of the previous victors from District Nine looked very uneasy at the thought of sharing the victor village with the mad mage. Mizar could only groan as he watched Tabbock boarding the hovercraft to freedom.

He was glad that he'd bought one home… but did it really have to be _this_ one?

* * *

 **The Curtain Call**

The yearly party at the president's manor went down as, perhaps, the best in history. If not the best then at least in the top five. Tabbock took to the party seen like a duck to water and got stuck in with putting on a magic show for Snow, the Capitol elite and the other victors. He even called up a few victors to help him with some thankfully non-lethal tricks.

Mizar was glad that it was the perfect distraction for him to leave the party unseen and head back to his hotel room until somebody came to bring him back for anything else he was needed for.

As was a very common trend in the life of the first ever victor his peace did not last long. He had only been laying on his bed for five minutes before his phone rang. He sighed, preparing to answer what he assumed was a call from one of the ministers demanding he get back to the party.

It was an unknown number.

"Probably just a fan… maybe a sponsor for next year," Mizar mused as he answered the phone. Hello?"

"Hello, is this Mizar Aldjoy, the first ever victor of the Hunger Games," spoke the voice of a woman with an accent Mizar didn't recognise.

"Yeah, that's me. Who is this?" Mizar asked. "…A fan?"

"Not in the normal sense. We've been watching you Mr Aldjoy. Seeing how you've been charitable to those in need, spoke against the Capitol in subtle ways when you could get away with it, what you did with that vile women to save Gwenith's life thirty years ago," the voice trailed off for a moment. "We want you on our side. We want you to gather as many willing victors as you can onto our side."

"Who is this? What are you talking about?" Mizar asked, now sitting up straight with more than a little unease in his tone.

"I speak on behalf of District Thirteen," the voice said, crisp and clear. "Junior Assistant and Private Second Class Alma Coin. We want you to join the rebellion, one that shall crush the Capitol and leave it gasping."

"I'm in," Mizar said, not having to pause and think for even a moment.

Between staying safe and under the Capitol's rule… or fighting dangerously and ensuring children did not have to face the reaping bowl it was no choice at all. Mizar would ask his questions later on – questions like asking where the hell Thirteen had been all of these years – once he'd taken care of the most important thing of his life.

Starting the downfall of the evillest regime he had ever heard of.

* * *

After a respectful silence Katniss and Peeta continued on their way down the street, the former having to gently support the latter as they walked along.

"You gonna be ok?" Katniss asked.

"I hope so," Peeta replied.

The star crossed lovers soon came to the next face of many imprinted into the sidewalk. A girl with a large, plaited ponytail looked back up at them with wide, nervous eyes. Her fancy earrings were an instant eye catcher as was the small dollar sign tattoo on her left cheek.

"Platinum," Katniss noted, reading the stats listed under the face. "Victor of the longest Hunger Games in history."

* * *

So, there we go, the black sheep of District Nine! Call me crazy if you must, but I always liked the idea of a magician within the Hunger Games, especially one with a killer instinct and / or a sociopathic nature to go alongside them. It was fun being creative with kills in this one, though gee wiz Tabbock sure doesn't fuck around. He ended up being much more brutal than I had expected when going into this one. So there we are, the fifth victor of D9 and now D13 has entered the fray. How's this gonna shake things up? Stay tuned to find out!

* * *

 **Stats**

 **District 1:** Peridot Gaudy (8th Games), Crystal McCree (14th Games), Bronze Marley (19th Games), Crown Martins (24th Games), Dollar Dettwieller (32nd Games), Mascara Court (41st Games)

 **District 2:** Baron Overwhill (4th Games), Runa Peace (7th Games), Olga Machete (10th Games), Rook Valiant (17th Games), Boulder Atherston (20th Games), Vercingetorix Carnby (25th Games), Dragon Batofel (27th Games), Rhyder Overwhill (39th Games)

 **District 3:** Honorius Perthshire (5th Games), Pi Orbit (22nd Games), Beetee Latier (37th Games)

 **District 4:** Museida Selkirk (3rd Games), Mags Flanagan (11th Games), Tide Luther (23rd Games), Librae Ogilvy (35th Games)

 **District 5:** Shunt Gaspar (12th Games), Isobel Sparks (18th Games), Crimson Flanders (29th Games), Porter Tripp (38th Games)

 **District 6:** Chassis Macalister (31st Games)

 **District 7:** Pliny Aransio (2nd Games), Fir Buzz (9th Games), Jack Tylos (21st Games), Snag Nakamura (34th Games)

 **District 8:** Woof Casino (16th Games), Paige Murphy (30th Games), Spool Nylon (42nd Games)

 **District 9:** Mizar Aldjoy (1st Games), Gwenith Rosebud (13th Games), Teff Withers (28th Games), Laurel Flamsteel (36th Games), Tabbock Summers (43rd Games)

 **District 10:** Stallion March (26th Games), Lammy Phyronix (40th Games)

 **District 11:** Bear Redfoot (15th Games), Seeder Howell (33rd Games)

 **District 12:** Duke Saint-Rose (6th Games)


	45. Platinum Twist

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Hunger Games. They belong to Suzanne Collins.

 **Note:** As has been stated in previous chapters, this here is the absolute longest Hunger Games there ever was. Forty days in the arena, it's enough to drive somebody mad… or at least really make them a little annoyed, haha. In any case, how could a Games last so very long when the gamemakers can just cause chaos any time things start to drag? Oh, I think you'll find there is indeed a way. Read on for the tale of Platinum and her unbeaten record!

* * *

"So, forty days was how long she spent in the arena?" Katniss could only shake her head, lost. "Here I was thinking nine days was an eternity in that forest."

"Felt a lot longer than nine. More like nineteen," Peeta said, distant. "That's what the official record is though, forty days. Never beaten. I'm not sure how it happened as they never air these Games. I guess that means they were trying to hide something?"

"Must be the case," Katniss said, gazing down at Platinum's face again. "She doesn't look like much, at least not by the standards of One. Only a single kill."

"A far cry from Mascara then," Peeta noted. "Hardly a bad thing if you ask me."

* * *

 **44** **th** **Annual Hunger Games**

 **Name:** Platinum Twist

 **Gender:** Female

 **District:** 1

 **Age:** 17

 **Kills:** 1

* * *

Few tributes were ever ready for the horrors of the arena.

Sometimes even the careers were completely and utterly unprepared for what awaiting them once the gong rang.

Platinum was one such career.

Platinum Twist was the daughter of a pair of silversmiths, a business she had quite the natural flair for. Her upbringing was pleasant enough and she never lacked any basic necessities growing up. She Had money, she had fine clothing, she even had a dollar sign tattoo on her cheek that she was quite fond of.

What she lacked, however, was popularity.

Popularity that she could only get within the walls of the career academy.

Platinum was never about the bloodshed or the honour of being a tribute in the Hunger Games. Only the showbiz and social status that came with training for the games. She could swing a sword just fine, throw a knife over forty yards into a target, shoot a bullseye with a bow and arrow and was a particularly fast runner.

She was vastly outclassed by the girls whose only goal in life was to win the Hunger Games – or, in some cases, murder innocent people without any fear of consequences – but didn't care any for this reality. She was still in the overall top ten of the year's candidates and that gave Platinum all that she believed she needed in her life.

Parties. Boys. Admiration.

Platinum thought she could simply socially float her way through the academy and graduate with plenty of job offers, networking opportunities and one hell of a fancy lifelong social life. She thought wrong on all accounts.

Per the rules in place ever since the Thirty Seventh Hunger Games, all of the overall top ten scorers of each academy year were considered to be volunteers for the Games. The top rank was, of course, first in line. Second was a back-up just in case the selected volunteer was unable to take part and third was the back-up for the back-up.

At most only the third back-up had ever been needed. Platinum had no reason to assume that anything would be any different as she sauntered into the reaping square, shooting teasing looks towards the boys she passed. She was sexy and she knew it.

She was also seventh in line for the role of tribute.

This was where the trouble began. After Mascara's horrific performance in the Games a few years ago there had been a sudden mass walk-out of several girls from the career academy. It had all been too much for the youths to take. It was too sick, too real. Several girls who left as a result of seeing the long dead psychopath in action were around the same skill level of Platinum, some slightly better, therefore unintentionally moving her from what would've been twentieth on the list up to seventh.

Just enough to seal her fate. The chosen volunteer had discovered she was pregnant, and her love for her unborn child instantly outweighed her desire to win the Hunger Games. The second volunteer broke her leg after falling down the stairs. The third volunteer had contracted a nasty case of the flu and was estimated to not recover for at least three weeks. The fourth volunteer had gotten into a car accident and, while alive, had broken both her legs and four of her ribs. The fifth volunteer had gotten herself arrested for illegal possession of particularly funky, hard hitting morphing. Meanwhile, the sixth volunteer had entered a coma after an ice cream binge following being dumped by her boyfriend.

This was all it took for Platinum to become first in line to volunteer and be told of this mere minutes before the reaping began. When a small girl who seemed to be having issues breathing made her way to the stage Platinum uttered the famous words.

"I volunteer!"

Platinum soaked up all of the applause and admiring cheers sent her way like some kind of elegant sponge. In that moment she felt truly on top of the world, like she was finally getting everything she deserved. The status, the fame, the genuine adoration was all hers!

Only when she was taken within the judgement building did everything finally hit her in one massive proverbial punch.

She was going into the arena and she had only been good enough to be deemed the seventh best option the district had. Most of the time even the best of the academy would die from something or another. Not to mention her district partner, a particularly tall and dashing young man known to his swarm of friends as Trove, had been the first volunteer in line of the boys.

Platinum wanted to throw up. Suddenly she didn't want her status quite so badly anymore.

* * *

The pre-Games events were a disaster for Platinum.

It was clear from the very opening moments of the parade that Platinum was not handling the Games anywhere close to as well as most females from One preceding her had done. With all eyes on her, the extremely loud cheering and how with every passing second her very likely death was approaching Platinum wasn't able to hold down her dinner.

"Urgh, sick!" Trove yelled, recoiling from his district partner. "What the hell Plat'? I thought you liked attention! That's, like, your entire _thing_!"

"S-s-sorry. Must have been something I ate on the train," Platinum replied, weakly continuing to wave to the crowd and try to recover from her goof-up.

Alas, it was not to be. By the end of the parade the Capitol had already dubbed Platinum as 'vomit girl' and the early odds of her victory were set particularly low. While improvement was possible the sheer amount of judgement and laughter sent at her had Platinum becoming more and more of an anxious mess before the first training day had even arrived.

Bronze, mentoring Trove, couldn't help laughing at the once fame hungry girl. He'd never deny being arrogant himself, but he would insist he could back it up and had many times over. He and Trove had hit it off quickly, both working to set down plans for Trove and taking the time to fawn over Crimson when Bronze bought up how 'easy' she was.

Platinum sought refuge on the balcony, unable to stick around her increasingly cocky district partner and the monster of the Nineteenth Games.

The monster whose black soul nobody aside Snow himself could claim to know inside and out. Not even Crimson.

Platinum gazed up at the stars, shaking like a naked person out in a blizzard.

"What have I done to myself?" Platinum whispered, shaking. "What have I gotten myself into?"

"Sounds like you've gotten yourself into a sticky situation you're not ready for," said a voice.

Crystal slowly wheeled herself over to the tribute she'd stepped up to mentor. As doctors had predicted for years her health had been dwindling, leaving her stuck in a wheelchair. Even with her time limited, Crystal wasn't ready to say farewell yet.

Not when she had one shot left to save a girl.

"I did the same thing when I was around your age," Crystal said, her voice fairly soft and quiet these days. "I was a silly kid. I got very lucky."

"I got unlucky," Platinum whispered. "I never wanted to be here. I never wanted to be a tribute! I just… I just wanted people to like me. Admire me. Think I was cool."

"And yet, you volunteered," Crystal noted. "Why'd you do that? Was that girl somebody you knew?"

"…I couldn't just let somebody who can't breathe properly go into the arena," Platinum mumbled. "And if I chickened out people would have hated me. I was selfish."

"I don't think you're quite as selfish as you think. Those old families from the Flawless Estate when I was a little girl? They were selfish," Crystal paused to get her breath back. "So, you had a bad day. It happens. But tomorrow's a whole new adventure! So many possibilities! The best part is you get to decide what happens next."

Platinum couldn't help but weakly smile at the enthusiasm of her mentor. Even in her middle age and how she was unable to walk on her own anymore, Crystal still had her childish peppiness. It was practically infectious.

"What happens next… is me making up for the parade," Platinum decided. "I'll make them love me, you'll see."

"That's the spirit!" Crystal exclaimed. "Always remember, tomorrow is a new adventure, and anything can happen. Now, let's talk tactics."

And so, they did. They spoke of numerous plans – many of them fairly quirky and silly ideas that only seemed to make perfect sense to crystal - until Harp, tagging along as she often did, came to the balcony after midnight had arrived.

"Getting late. It's…" Harp paused, briefly forgetting her words. "It's, uh, bedtime. Bedtime for Platinum, bedtime for Crissy."

"Bed sounds good," Platinum agreed, yawning and making her way inside.

"Oh come on Harp, I'm not even tired," Crystal complained, mostly in jest.

Harp just giggled as she wheeled her girlfriend back inside. Some things had never changed over the years they'd known each other.

* * *

Despite Crystal's optimism and well intentioned advice things did not, in fact, get better when training began. The whole three days were one ongoing exercise in humiliation and pain.

Platinum hated being judged and looking like an idiot. Alas, both these things happened plenty of times with each day that passed.

On the first day of training Platinum tried to show off her talents with the sword much like dozens of tributes from One in the past. She knew how good she was with the weapon. However, using the sword while being watched by her academy classmates was nothing close to being watched by tributes who could potentially kill her. Platinum ended up dropping the sword twice as at least six outliers stared at her while she trained. The vomit girl nickname came back in full force.

Platinum tried not to cry. Crystal tried to encourage her. Harp tried to bake them cookies.

On the second day of training Platinum tried to brush on her technique with the bar mace. Striking the dummies was the easy part. The hard part was ignoring all the tributes who watched her, the so called 'vomit girl'. This time she managed to ignore the outliers, but the careers were a whole other story. They were willing to let Platinum into their gang, as they all knew they were stronger together. It all came down to if she could win a spare against one of the trainers.

Platinum locked up under the gazes of her powerful allies and the stone cold trainer. Another stress induced vomiting ensued, her spot within the pack withdrawn right as the trainer easily smacked her over.

On the third day of training Platinum was getting desperate. Nobody, not even most of the outliers, were taking her seriously. To the careers she was just another target of many. A joke. A laughingstock. Platinum even became hopeless enough to do something no self-respecting career tribute would ever do – visit the edible plants training station. Learning about mosses did not help her mood.

It did, however, prevent her score falling below a six. Even so, six was among the lowest scores that girls from One had ever achieved. Platinum couldn't look her ever supportive, gentle mentor in her eyes.

* * *

The interviews… the less said about them the better. All Platinum knew was that apparently #VomitGirl was trending all across social media within the Capitol and it showed no signs of slowing down any time soon.

She was left with all the vileness. Trove was the one with the hoards of fans and admirers.

Platinum wished she'd never tried to be popular in the first place.

* * *

"You can do this," Crystal said, letting Platinum lean towards her so that she could embrace her from her wheelchair. "It's about living the longest. Not being the most popular or strong. I was neither."

"You had fans," Platinum whispered, her voice cracking. "You had Harp."

Harp joined the hug, gently holding Platinum from behind as the trio spent their last minutes together before the tributes were to be taken to the arena.

"You have me too," Harp said, gentle as always. "Money. Lots of it. Mine."

"Harp isn't bound by the same rules I am," Crystal added. "She can sponsor you anything you need."

This did little to cheer Platinum up. She felt like she had no chance at all; it was not unheard of for girl from One to die in the bloodbath. The thought had her spine tingling awfully. She wanted to run home to her mother.

There was nowhere near enough time left for Crystal to be able to calm Platinum down. The peacekeepers came for her soon enough, dragging the girl out of the room like some kind of a limp ragdoll. Platinum didn't fight the pulling, the will to battle quickly leaving her.

"You can do this!" Crystal called after her, trying to keep her own breathing stable. "I had a heart condition and won. All you need to do is believe in yourself! It'll… it'll be… an adventure…!"

Crystal was forced to calm down, the strain of shouting almost more than she could take. She could only hope that her final words to Platinum would be enough to light the fire within her. It didn't matter what others thought; it only mattered that she love herself. Her thoughts were cut off when she blacked out, leaving Harp to call for a medic and some freshly baked cookies for when Crystal would eventually awaken.

Platinum tried to think of anything but her looming fate. The care and support Crystal had shown her, the cheering at the reaping stage, her parents utmost faith in her to not only win but set a new record for the quickest ever Hunger Games…

All she could picture within her tormented mind was Bronze laughing at her non-stop, the outliers snickering when she puked, her once allies in the career pack deeming her to be worthless to have on their side, the gamemakers shaking their heads, the blinding lights on the interview stage making her ever so sick.

Platinum couldn't help it. She tried not to do it. She held out for as long as she could.

She threw up in her seat.

"Vomit girl! Vomit girl! Vomit girl!"

Platinum had no idea which tributes were chanting the terrible name or if she was imagining the whole thing. All she knew was that she couldn't stop herself from screaming. Everything went dark soon after that when, for the sake of keeping the transport peaceful, one of the peacekeepers injected her with something to knock her out for the rest of the ride.

* * *

Platinum awoke just as she was sealed into her launch tube. Her head was pounding, her vision was blurry and it took her several lightheaded moments to realise she was now in an avocado green tribute outfit – something cold resistant and woolly – and that she was rising upwards.

She was entering the arena.

Platinum didn't even have the energy to cry anymore or plead for a way out. All that registered into her eyes was pure depression in the face of the inevitable. She'd surely set a record for the quickest death in the history of the Games.

"How could I be so fucking stupid…?"

The launch plates clicked into place and gave Platinum, as well as the other twenty three tributes, a chance to look around at this year's arena. The mere sight sent further shudders up Platinum's back, each one like a razor.

It was another of the rarely seen underground arenas. Nothing like the disastrous coal mine of the Thirty First Games, this one was somewhat akin to the dark cavern of the Twelfth Games. Only this time the underground cavern was a bit brighter, currently glowing a very, very faint shade of icy blue. The roof of the cavern was covered in beautiful crystals as far the eye could see and on the ground it was much the same; where there weren't mossy growths, puddles of water, cliffs, rubble or small patches of mushrooms there were clusters of crystals growing out of the ground.

Crystals…

Crystal.

Platinum, for a moment, as able to picture her mentor within her mind. Her dulled hair, her weak body, her smile full of endless youthful joy.

' _So, you had a bad day. It happens. But tomorrow's a whole new adventure! So many possibilities! The best part is you get to decide what happens next.'_

"I… I decide… to live," Platinum whispered, balling her fists.

Her confidence was almost entirely broken again as the countdown started, approaching her doom closer and closer with every passing second. Several other tributes were similarly breaking down while the careers held strong in their resolve to commit as much murder in the opening minutes as feasibly possible.

Platinum wiped away her tears when just ten seconds remained, noticing something peculiar. There were not very many weapons in and around the horn of plenty this year. Mainly knives with a small supply of axes and bar maces. Most of the supplies consisted of large packs full of water bottles and food.

Platinum prepared to race into the fray, knowing that whether she died a swift death or got away with food, she'd be better off avoiding starvation.

The gong rang and the mayhem began in under ten seconds. Trove slipped over a small pack of bread that had been hidden with a shadow and cost himself precious time. Enough for the outliers to get ahead of him, especially as both of the tributes from Two had also foolishly stumbled over.

Several tributes had ran off into the darkness with supplies by the time the careers claimed some weapons and the poor girl from Eight was already dead by the hand of the girl from Four. The pack spread out fast, not wanting to leave their sponsors unimpressed.

They got stuck in, briefly oblivious to Platinum's presence. Her arms were absolutely overloaded with packs full of food and water, enough supplies contained within to last for weeks. It made her a tempting target for the boy from Eleven, a fifteen year old who had only ever eaten stale bread and drank rainwater before coming to the Capitol.

It happened so fast, one of the quickest and cleanest kills in recent Games history. One moment the boy confronted Platinum with a shoddy axe and made her panic. The next moment Platinum had stabbed him right in the centre of his chest. He collapsed silently, leaving Platinum to stand in a silence of her own.

She'd gone into shock over what she had just done to a boy who only wanted to eat. The most bare and basic desire of them all, a far cry behind popularity.

Platinum began to hyperventilate, twitch and shiver as she gazed at the boy's corpse. She only came back to Panem when, having failed to prevent the boy from Seven from running off with a big backpack and an axe in each hand, the careers came after her. Even Trove wasn't holding back from what had to be done.

Platinum finally broke, letting out one hell of a shrill _**scream**_. The intense pitch had the careers reflexively covering their now ringing ears, flinching from the horrible sound. Platinum scooped up her massive armful of supplies and ran off into the dimly lit crystal cavern, screaming and crying all the way.

The career pack simply shrugged to each other as Platinum fled the area. They'd track her down soon enough and reclaim their supplies. For now they had other issues to worry about, like taking care of their minor wounds, sorting out their supplies and forming a plan to hunt and kill all the other tributes.

All sixteen of them. After all, only three had died at the bloodbath this year; the girl from Three, both from Six, the girl from Eight and the boy from Eleven who had only wanted bread.

The gamemakers made a rough estimate of a three week Games at most, which even then was pretty unlikely.

They were way off the mark…

* * *

Three days had gone by without another death. The arena was simply too massive to make it an easy job for the careers to hunt down all of the outliers, especially as there were only three of them. The general darkness and plethora of hiding places only further dragged things out.

Retrospectively, it could be said that the Games winning move happened on the third day, all by a freak accident.

Platinum was walking a mile from the edge of the arena, overloading with supplies and struggling to carry all of the many packs and bags. Her arms were sore from the strain, her eyes stung from the many tears she'd shed and her knee lightly throbbed from where she'd tripped and scraped it the previous day.

It all happened when Platinum was moving through an area where several large crystals were hanging low from the ceiling. As pretty as they were to look at they were also a danger unknown to all, even the gamemakers. Arena construction had been rushed in certain places to keep everything on schedule. Due to this the crystals had not been correctly freeze welded onto the stone ceiling of the cavern.

By the grandest of flukes they came loose just as Platinum went near them.

One moment the crystals were forming light cracks. Next moment they were loose and falling hard. After that the sounds of smashing and rumbling echoed throughout the arena. Not enough for a cave-in – the gamemakers ensured _that_ was impossible this time around – but certainly enough to smashed right through the floor and down to the depths below the arena.

Platinum wasn't close enough to be killed by the fullest crystals, but she was close enough to be at the very edge of the newly opened chasm. The ground under her feet crumbled and sent her screaming into the darkness.

There was no cannon. Only silence.

* * *

Platinum awoke on the fifth day, by which point there were still nineteen tributes alive and one very bored and huffy Capitol audience. But that was no longer an issue to her anymore.

The main issues were the fact she was at the very bottom of a deep, dark hole with shards of crystal scattered all over the place. That and her left leg was broken. Only the fact she had so many packs of supplies to take the worst of the impact had saved her life.

Saved her from falling to her death at least. Being stuck under the underground with no way out was not much better. For a while Platinum was only able to sob and panic, wishing she was home.

Panic turned to anxiety and anxiety turned to depression. How would she ever get out of the hole? Was there a way out? Was this a trap that had failed to kill her or was there a whole new layer to the arena beyond the 'surface of the underground'?

Platinum spent a while looking through all of her supplies, checking for something that may help her. Medical gear was in short supply, though she had a huge amount of food and water.

"Just as well I have all of this. I'll be here a while…" Platinum mumbled, quietly opened a packet of cheesy chips. "Aaaaah, my leg…!"

Further rooting through her supplies led to Platinum finding a digital watch and a pack of chalk. With nothing else to do Platinum carefully worked out how long had passed since she'd fallen. Luckily, the clock came with a date on the screen.

It had been two days since the fall. It was the fifth day in the arena. Platinum lay on her back, shivering more from fear than cold.

"What am I gonna do?"

A cannon boomed, the careers having finally managed to track down another tribute nine miles to the east of where Platinum lay alone in the dark.

"How many are left?" Platinum paused, realising she had no way of knowing how many did or did not die when she was knocked out. "Shit, shit, shit…"

With a broken leg, no way out of the hole, no chance of winning a fight anymore and seemingly no chance of winning the Games, Platinum began to cry. She was doomed to die, all because of her selfish desires for popularity and being better than those around her.

"I'm guess I'm gonna be here a while…"

* * *

Five days and two cannons passed by. Platinum was only now beginning to see just how long days were when you had noting to do to fill up the passage of time. She couldn't climb out, she was unable to walk and even dragging herself around was getting harder. She had food, water and a thick blanket to keep her alive for now, but she was very aware to one particular problem.

With every mouthful of food or water she consumed her supplies were gradually getting lower.

As obvious of a statement as it was the reality was clear: there were no more supplies coming. If Platinum ran out then she was fucked.

"What do I do now?" Platinum muttered. "I can't get out and find anybody."

Platinum paused, a thought suddenly hitting her. One that, for a few seconds, caused her to weakly smile.

"They can't get me down here either," Platinum whispered. "If I stay quiet they'd never know I was here."

Platinum lay down, quiet as a mouse. Her only advantage was being hidden from sight and it was one she intended to use to its fullest effect.

* * *

By the fifteenth day Platinum was starting to face something worse than the pain in her useless leg or the fear that never quite ceased surging through her bones.

The complete isolation.

Platinum had never gone more than a few hours without seeing or hearing another person. Being alone for a day was strange. Being alone for three days was uneasy. Being alone for over ten days with no end in sight was starting to drive her mad.

How many were still alive? She did not know – it wasn't unheard of for tributes to sleep through the firing of a cannon – and had started to forget what little she knew about the tributes to begin with. She'd forgotten the names of the outliers and several of their faces. She struggled to recall the names of the warriors from Two, Barbus and Hun. The only one who really stood out in her mind was Trove and even then she was starting to have issues remembering his voice. How long until the rest of the memories slipped away as well?

The worst of it all was that, being stuck in the hole as she was, it was impossible for Platinum to see the faces in the death anthem at the end of each day. Each cannon was a mere noise, a statement that somebody died. Nothing else. Was Trove alive? Was Hun? Was the boy from Nine with bad acne? It was impossible to say.

"Crystal, please, can you send me something?" Platinum whispered. "More food, more water… just a note for me to read? Please…"

…But nothing came.

* * *

The twentieth day arrived just as slowly as those before it. Half of the tributes were now dead, not that Platinum knew it. She'd slept through the cannon that marked the boy from Three's death at the hands of Hun.

Platinum sighed as she carefully opened a small packaged bun. Time had no meaning anymore. It was just a means towards marking another chalk line upon the wall.

Platinum spent much of day laying down, softly whimpering from the pain in her broken leg. It had only been getting more and more sore as the days went by, the damn thing stuck in an angle it was obviously never supposed to have been put into. Alas, it was far too late now to get any medical gear.

It was around the evening when Platinum heard something. It took her a moment to realise what the noise was, it having been so long since any sounds aside cannons had entered her ears.

Yelling. Laughing. Screaming.

People!

Platinum had to slap her hands over her mouth to keep herself from calling out to whoever was above herself. Being alone for so long made it a brief trouble to remember she was in a game where anybody could be her own personal executioner.

"No! Please! No!"

"What's the matter? You scared?"

Platinum closed her eyes tightly, shaking as a horrible splattering echoed from above. One stumble later and something fell not far from her spot within the darkness, landing with a painful splat. A cannon boomed throughout the arena right afterwards.

Platinum didn't bare to breath as footsteps of three people drew nearer far above her. Three figures peered downwards into the hole.

"See anything down there?" one asked. Trove, Platinum realised. The same who killed the boy whod' begged for mercy.

"Nothing. Just darkness," Hun replied. "Seems like a trap here to catch out people who don't watch their step."

"May as well turn back, nothing around here worth our time," Trove said, already turning to leave. "Ok guys, how many others left?"

"Nine others. Can't remember which ones," Hun replied. "Just kill anything that moves."

"I know your partner is still out there One," Barbus added. "She's good at hiding, I'll give her that."

The three careers headed off from the hole, their silhouettes soon off in the darkness and out of sight. It was some time before Platinum dared to start breathing at a normal pace again. She wasn't about to assume the careers wouldn't be able to climb down and kill her. They, after all, had their legs working fine.

Platinum dragged herself over to the object that had fallen down the whole. She screamed into her sleeve when she was it was the corpse of the boy from Eight, the small boy bleeding from a severe sword wound across his back and having broken much of the insides of his chest from the fall.

With him was a bag of supplies, one that Platinum was quick to claim. Only two bottles of water and three tins of cold vegetable soup, but to Platinum it was like a priceless treasure hoard.

Quite a while passed before, having realised the hovercraft was not coming down to collect the body, Platinum gently propped the boy's body up against the pit wall opposite hers. With his eyes closed and the darkness making his blood hard to see it was like he was just sleeping.

A sleeper who smelt of blood and death.

"Looks like we're gonna be here for a while, aren't we… uh…" Platinum paused, having long ago forgotten the boy's name. "…I'll call you Strap. That a good name, Strap?"

The corpse didn't respond. Platinum huddled a blanket over herself, wondering how long she'd hold onto what remained of her sanity before finally losing it.

* * *

Day twenty five began with the girl from Four being bitten badly by cave rats. She was easy prey for the careers after that, the pack having been bought over by the sounds of her screams. Their brief triumph and the knowledge of making it to the final eight and thus ensuring their families would be visited did not last long. A much more pressing concern began not long afterwards.

There was almost no food left.

The outliers had barely any scraps to live off of at all and moss was hard to find. The careers had more than anybody else, but with their bigger appetites, lack of experience handling hunger and how the supplies were split between three of them meant it was running out at an alarming rate.

It would be a wonder if their food lasted halfway through day twenty seven. The pack acted quickly, tearing through the cave like lightning to try and quickly eliminate the rest of the tributes, but darkness hid them very well. The physical activity only caused the careers to drain their supplies faster.

Meanwhile Platinum remained at the bottom her hole, still having a fair amount of supplies left. But with her leg causing pain around the clock and her seeming inability to keep herself warm it was a small comfort at best. The stench of the corpse across from her further increased her suffering, more than once making her vomit what she had eaten.

"How many left… was it seven others or ten?" Platinum muttered, weary from fatigue. "Did I mark today or not… um…"

Platinum marked the wall for the third time of the day, too out of it to know she was losing track of everything going on. She groaned, downing another can of cold soup.

* * *

Day thirty's arrival officially granted the Forty Fourth Hunger Games the title of being the longest Games in history, a record that would never be bested. By now the title was particularly apt, the tributes all out of supplies and reduced to eating moss or simply bearing the hunger pains.

A feast was called. The only outlier close enough to attend was the short boy from Twelve. He wolfed down all the soup on offer at the feast, leaving not a single drop for anybody else who had been planning to attend. He died with a knife thrown into his back by Trove, the career and his allies furious that there was nothing left for them to eat.

As the careers continued to force themselves to hunt, slowly starving to death, the remaining outliers were becoming too weak to do more than stumble around. There was nothing in the cavern left for them to eat.

At the bottom of her hole Platinum was running out of supplies. Even with her rationing it was inevitable that she'd have nothing left to eat, or even drink, soon enough.

She distracted herself from her painful reality by creating a fantasy with her dead 'hole mate'. She'd talked to Strap for hours, keeping both sides of the conversation going. She was losing it.

"You got a promotion Strap? The wife will be so happy!"

"She won't be, she wanted me to be running the company yesterday. She'll divorce me for sure!"

"Maybe you could take her to court and make off with half of her possessions?"

"What if I end up with her cats? They smell and they scratch my eyes!"

"Cat is a funny word. Ha… haha… hahahahahaha!"

* * *

By day thirty five Platinum had stopped talking to the stinking corpse she shared living space with and just lay in a silence, staring blankly up towards the top of the hole. Her water was low and she had barely any food left. Enough for one and a half meals at best. She tried to ignore the hunger, wondering how long it'd take to leave… or to starve when she inevitably ran out of supplies.

All Platinum could do to hold onto reality was think back to the kindness Crystal and Harp had shown her. The faith Crystal had in her. It wasn't exactly a happy memory, not anymore, but it served as a way to anchor her into the world around her and outside of insanity.

Outside the hole things were not looking good for the other four tributes who were still wandering around. After Hun had died from falling down a steep cliff and onto a punji stick trap the long dead girl from Ten set up weeks ago the pack had split. Trove stumbled around one way in a fit of hunger while Barbus slowly walked another way, his body shutting down one little bit at a time. Their lack of experience of handling hunger was crippling them.

The remaining outliers weren't much better off. The boy from Five lay immobile amongst some crystals to the far north of the area, practically skin and bones after weeks of hunger and terror. The girl from Nine sobbed, moaned and groaned as she walked along like a zombie, her hunger practically eating her from inside out.

No food was coming. No water was coming. Sponsors were too expensive for almost everybody and the few who could afford them were unwilling to spend so much on what they thought was a worthless expense.

It was going to play out naturally. Last to starve would win.

It wouldn't be the boy from Five. His cannon fired at around nine in the evening.

At around the same time Platinum was down to her final slice of somewhat mouldy and particularly stale bread.

* * *

On day thirty eight. The gamemakers called another feast, a single fresh loaf of bread on offer for anybody who chose to attend.

Everybody was too weak to do more than stumble a few paces. Nobody was able to attend the feast, not even the once mighty Trove. He was a mere wisp of his former glory.

Barbus' cannon fired that night, a mixture of dehydration and sheer exhaustion claiming him. Oh, and the hunger. The terrible hunger.

Platinum lay almost immobile at the base of her hole, her stomach hurting and everything around her looking blurry and far away.

The cannon fired for Trove just before midnight. The once cocky and formidable giant dying to the merciless withering pain of hunger.

* * *

Platinum was silent for the thirty ninth day. There was nothing to, nothing to say, nothing to eat or even drink anymore. Well, aside a single mouthful of moss on the wall that just made her feel sick. She moaned, slumping onto her side.

The starving girl from Nine aimlessly limped around, barely taking a few steps a minute, as she tried to find the last tribute besides herself. She'd long ago forgotten who it even was.

The grain farmer passed Platinum's hole prison twice without realising it. Platinum hadn't realised the other tribute had been so close to her in the first place.

* * *

Platinum just lay down to quietly die on the fortieth day. It wouldn't be long now, a day or two longer at most. Platinum just wanted it to stop hurting. She didn't care what happened to her anymore.

She thought of Crystal one more time as she slowly turned to lay on her back. Her mentor really had tried, even if she'd been unable to send her a single sponsor gift. If there existed anything behind the curtain of the reaper then she'd be sure to thank her one day.

A cannon fired halfway through the day.

Platinum didn't even react to the sound, the noise of cannons having lost all meaning to her a long time ago. She did, however, weakly groan in response to the sound of trumpets ringing through the arena.

"…What…?"

"Ladies and Gentlemen, may I shortly present to you the victor of the Forty Fourth Hunger Games! Platinum Twist!"

Platinum didn't respond. She was already fading into another blackout. The last thing she felt was the sensation of being lifted into the air by a gentle claw from a hovercraft.

In the moment before it all went dark Platinum felt like an angel ascending from the darkness of hell.

* * *

It was a disaster.

Platinum only found out about it once she had been deemed to have recovered enough for the final interview to happen – three weeks of the absolute best medical care in the nation- but there had been a massive accident within the arena and as a result the Head Gamemaker had been hanged.

It took until the last interview and seeing the recap footage of the games to really understand what had caused the Games to be such a strange phenomenon and, in the eyes of President Snow, a failure.

Platinum's past self on the screen had decent amounts of screen time early on, being shown reflexively killing the boy from Eleven and running around in a mad panic. But then on the third day the crystals fell from above and smashed open a large chasm in the arena's floor, taking her down below with them.

She never showed up on any cameras again until the very end of the Games' runtime.

It turned out the crystals falling had not only made a hole in the floor of the cavern arena, but it also smashed right down to the dead space below the arena. For all intents and purposes Platinum had fallen out-of-bounds and technically exited the arena. It became impossible for anybody to find her or harm her in any way. All it took was keeping herself fed and hydrated. Being out of bounds and somewhere that nobody could see her made sending in sponsor parachutes impossible, no matter how much Crystal had tried to send her stuff.

All the gamemakers knew was that she was alive after her fall and that she was shown on the arena map within their control room. She just… wasn't there either. She survived in the hole longer than any assumed possible.

It was a complete and utter fluke.

Platinum didn't care if it was a fluke or not. Especially not that, for all intents and purposes, she was the victor with the hands down lowest amount of screen time, even lower than Pliny. She was just glad to be alive.

She was glad to be able to go _home_.

* * *

"It was all thanks to you, you know?" Platinum said to Crystal and Harp on the train ride back to one.

The couple looked up at the new victor sitting across from them. Bronze, to their shared delight, had ended up deciding to stay in the Capitol for another week to blow off some steam after the Games. They expected this meant blackjack and hookers, probably without the blackjack.

Crystal wheeled over to be beside Platinum while Harp moved to sit beside the newest victor from One.

"What do you mean?" Crystal asked, making sure to keep her breathing stable.

"Me… being here. The fact I'm not dead or insane. It was all you," Platinum continued. "I mean, I'm still… not alright. I doubt I ever will be. But just having those memories of you two mentoring me made all the difference."

Platinum gently pulled the couple in for a three way hug.

"It gave me something to focus on in that hole, something other than reality," Platinum tried not to cry. "Thank you…"

"It was our… pleasure, Yes, pleasure," Harp smiled, patting Platinum on her back. "Happy to h… um… help, yes."

"Just part of being a good mentor and a great adventurer," Crystal said, smiling contently as she lay back in her wheelchair. "For a final adventure… it couldn't have been any better than this."

"Final adventure?" Platinum asked, shaky.

"I'm dying, we all know it," Crystal paused to wheeze a few times. "That's ok. I stand by what I said when I 'died' back in my own Games… I saw something wonderful when I died. Saw my Grandma for a second. Heh… why worry?"

Crystal paused again, trying to find both her breath and the right words.

"Promise your mentor something?" Crystal asked, letting Harp move to gently hug her from behind.

"Anything," Platinum said, wiping away her tears. "Don't go…"

"We all need to go one day, even if it's just for a few years," Crystal weakly chuckled. "But… promise me this. Even when you have to grow up, be a kid at heart… treat life like an adventure… that's what it is, a decades klong adventure…"

"I promise," Platinum said, the sincerest she had ever been. "You know, I think I learnt something from all of the hell I went through."

"What did you learn?" Crystal asked.

"…It doesn't matter if I'm popular or not. It never did, really. It just matters that I feel ok about myself and that I have just a few people who care about me. You guys, my parents… that's all I need."

Crystal and Harp responded with another hug. It wasn't much, but it was appreciated.

Platinum never would forget what Crystal had told her. She intended to keep her promise and live life like it were and adventure, not something to be feared every day. She reaffirmed this promise often, especially when she was by Crystal's side when she passed away peacefully three months later. Surrounded by family, her lover and her friends Crystal's final words would forever stick with Platinum.

"What a wonderful adventure… now… go have your own…"

Platinum promised she would, no matter what people thought of her.

* * *

After holding a further moment of silence for Platinum Katniss and Peeta took another ten steps down the street. It wasn't more than a few moments before they came to the forty fifth face on the famous sidewalk.

The boy who looked back at them had professional looking glasses, an immaculately tidy look to himself, a rather firm and serious sort of look in his narrowed eyes and short hair that seemed to be the result of at least an hour of brushing. Katniss and Peeta paused, rather surprised at what they were seeing.

"…Is this Chaff?" Katniss asked, more confused than anything else. "He's so… so…"

"…Tidy," Peeta finished. "Nothing like he was in his final days…"

* * *

There we are, the longest Hunger Games in the entire history of Panem! While careers are trained for the arena, there remains a big difference between being physically ready and mentally ready. Platinum sure wasn't and it took a complete accident to get her out of the reaper's hold. I've always had an interest in the nature of career volunteers and arena stability in general. It hit me that combining these things could make a good tale; have a much weaker than average career forced up the totem and then survive due to an arena fault. Hope you all enjoyed Platinum's tale and Crystal's farewell; the adventurer might be gone, but her lady sure isn't. Harp will return. Until then, get ready for another canon victor! It's Chaff, and with him another logical fallacy of canon to mercilessly pick apart. :D

* * *

 **Stats**

 **District 1:** Peridot Gaudy (8th Games), Crystal McCree (14th Games), Bronze Marley (19th Games), Crown Martins (24th Games), Dollar Dettwieller (32nd Games), Mascara Court (41st Games), Platinum Twist (44th Games)

 **District 2:** Baron Overwhill (4th Games), Runa Peace (7th Games), Olga Machete (10th Games), Rook Valiant (17th Games), Boulder Atherston (20th Games), Vercingetorix Carnby (25th Games), Dragon Batofel (27th Games), Rhyder Overwhill (39th Games)

 **District 3:** Honorius Perthshire (5th Games), Pi Orbit (22nd Games), Beetee Latier (37th Games)

 **District 4:** Museida Selkirk (3rd Games), Mags Flanagan (11th Games), Tide Luther (23rd Games), Librae Ogilvy (35th Games)

 **District 5:** Shunt Gaspar (12th Games), Isobel Sparks (18th Games), Crimson Flanders (29th Games), Porter Tripp (38th Games)

 **District 6:** Chassis Macalister (31st Games)

 **District 7:** Pliny Aransio (2nd Games), Fir Buzz (9th Games), Jack Tylos (21st Games), Snag Nakamura (34th Games)

 **District 8:** Woof Casino (16th Games), Paige Murphy (30th Games), Spool Nylon (42nd Games)

 **District 9:** Mizar Aldjoy (1st Games), Gwenith Rosebud (13th Games), Teff Withers (28th Games), Laurel Flamsteel (36th Games), Tabbock Summers (43rd Games)

 **District 10:** Stallion March (26th Games), Lammy Phyronix (40th Games)

 **District 11:** Bear Redfoot (15th Games), Seeder Howell (33rd Games)

 **District 12:** Duke Saint-Rose (6th Games)


	46. Chaff Mitchell

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Hunger Games. They belong to Suzanne Collins.

 **Note:** Halfway through the decade! Several canons are looming near and nearest of all is the star of today's chapter, Chaff. I always felt he was a bit underutilised in canon… like, a lot, so I hope I did him plenty of justice here. Some may call it a strange take on his youth. Others, mainly just myself, call it hilarious. Either way, hope you guys enjoy the poor lad's suffering and the exploration of one rather notably flaw in the reaping system…

* * *

Katniss stared down at Chaff's imprinted face, trying to connect it to the middle aged drunken man she'd ever so briefly known during the quell. She failed.

"How did he go from this to… that," Katniss strained her face a little, as if trying to bring forth the answer from her mind. "I've got nothing."

"The arena changes people," Peeta said. "Some go from pleasant people to bitter and depressed. Some from happy to unendingly sad. It's a rare, and messed up, person who doesn't change at all."

"I guess you're right," Katniss agreed. "Maybe we can just ask Haymitch."

* * *

 **45** **th** **Annual Hunger Games**

 **Name:** Chaff Mitchell

 **Gender:** Male

 **District:** 11

 **Age:** 18

 **Kills:** 5

* * *

Every reaping follows a very rigid procedure with rules that are to be obeyed, lest the offender suffer an instant case of 'bullets lodged into face'. From the First Games up to the Final Games everything happened in a certain, highly specific order.

The reaping eligible children arrived and were put into their age & gender specific pens.

The escort would prance out with a fine howdy-do and say a meaningless hello.

A propaganda video would be shown and the treaty of treason would be read out, the names of all past victors of any particular district read out.

A girl and boy would be reaped, taken away to almost certain doom. Sometimes there were volunteers, sometimes – especially in districts like District Eleven – there were almost never any at all.

On paper it seemed like a pretty easy system, both to follow and to enforce. The latter part was made especially easy by all the peacekeepers with their constantly upgraded guns. However, there was one little problem with the wording. One teensy little issue. One small oversight none of those who founded the Hunger Games had once thought to realise was a damn serious thing to forget about!

"Chaff Mitchell!"

More than one person could have the same name.

That was why, when the name Chaff Mitchell was read out in the square of District Eleven during the reaping for the Forty Fifth Hunger Games it wasn't just one boy who started to approach the reaping stage.

It was five!

While one Chaff Mitchell walked towards the stage with his head held high the other four, realising there was literally no way the reaping slip – which only ever contained the first name and surname of a potential tribute – could tell one of them apart from the other decided to slink back into the crowds like sneaky rats. Nobody noticed them.

Nobody aside from the Chaff Mitchell on the stage. Of course, he had no chance to point out the complete and utter foolishness with the rules; it was such an obvious loophole! He was silenced before he could say a word, the escort (dressed as a toilet plunger as one could logically expect) hushing him like he were some sort of little child and the peacekeepers marching him into the judgement building.

The peacekeepers would admit to the fact he was totally right that the name reading part of the system was particularly poorly designed, but it wasn't their job to complain about the Capitol. It was also not their job to pass on any complaints from district citizens. If the issue existed, too bad too sad.

Chaff was visited by his parents and younger sister, all wishing him well and assuring him that he had the skills needed to make it home. All were particularly angry and hurt by the fact none of the other Chaff Mitchells had anything befall them. Why did it have to be their Chaff?

They would all admit to this being selfish, but such was Panem.

Chaff, in spite of being a bit overwhelmed, assured his family he would be able to make it back home and he'd do it in a far quicker time than the previous victor had. He was strong, he was dedicated, he was known by many to be particularly smart and, most of all…

He was **THE HALL MONITOR**!

* * *

 **100 RULES CHAFF THE HALL MONITOR BROKE DURING HIS TIME AS A TRIBUTE**

 _Witnessed By_

 _Bear Redfoot & Seeder Howell_

 **#1: Don't ask the camera crew at the train station to stop because you're 'camera shy'.  
B.R: **They won't care about your feelings. To them you're not a human being, just a character. **  
S.H:** Speaking of which, don't make your character 'the guy obsessed with rules and order'. They'll take it as a challenge to break you.

 **#2: Don't tell the escort that their toilet plunger fashion is ridiculous and that their posing is not welcome in a district environment.**  
 **B.R:** You're right, of course, but their crying will go on for hours and it annoys everybody.  
 **S.H:** It also puts you on the Capitol's bad side, so keep your mouth shut as best as you can.

 **#3: Upon sitting down for the first meal on the train ride don't loudly criticise the fact the silverware has been arranged wrong and in an 'unprofessional manner unbecoming of the nation'.**  
 **B.R:** It gets blamed on the Avoxes and they've suffered enough.  
 **S.H:** It also means you get your silverware privileges revoked at your next meal.

 **#4: Don't scold your district partner for eating with her hands like a 'savage'.**  
 **B.R:** I'm actually surprised that Planter didn't stab you with your own butter knife. That girl was packing heat.  
 **S.H:** Honestly though. I didn't think a girl from one of the most vicious gangs would show any restraint like that.

 **#5: When the escort spills the salt you shouldn't forcefully correct her grip when she tries to pick the salt shaker back up. Nor should you ask if Capitol surgery can fix her 'butterfingers'.  
B.R:** Forget Planter, the escort's restraint was really something. I don't think you're going to listen to us, are you?  
 **S.H:** He won't. But we both know you were even worse during your train ride Bear.

 **#6: During the reaping recaps you should not read out a pre-planned ten minute speech over why it's unfair that the careers have years of training and you don't.**  
 **B.R:** I agree with you fully that those pieces of shit have it far too good, but ranting about it helps nobody. If anything it probably made the escort committing to putting poison in your next mug of tea.  
 **S.H:** I'm not sure why you even had a pre-written speech with you. Did you bring that to the reaping with you? This'll be a long year…

 **#7: Don't call the girl from Four – or, Marlowe Fritter if you prefer – a shameless scarlet lady when she walks to the reaping stage in just a tiny bikini.**  
 **B.R:** Chances are the escort will tattle on you and then Marlowe will gut with you a cutlass.  
 **S.H:** At least it's not as bad as the time that boy from Five went to the reaping stage naked…

 **#8: Even if you're right, don't call the boy from Five – or, Klink Briar – just as unsuitable for a district environment as the escort's posing.**  
 **B.R:** Chaff, young man, she'd only just stopped crying!  
 **S.H:** Another naked tribute. What is wrong with that district? Why'd he volunteer for that bald teen?

 **#9: Don't complain about Klink's stupid quest for nudist rights.**  
 **B.R:** Just… just don't. Panem doesn't make any sense now, it never did and it never will.  
 **S.H:** I need another drink Bear.

 **#10: When asked what your skills are, don't go in-depth to the point you talk about knitting and detention overseeing for half an hour.**  
 **B.R:** The Capitol took plenty of time away from me already, you don't need to start taking my time as well. I need it to give Teff therapy sessions when she relapses.  
 **S.H:** Victors may have used odd skills to win sometimes, but knitting will never help you.

 **#11: When it is time for bed do not spend three hours labelling everything with sticky notes.**  
 **B.R:** Honestly, who ever says things like they 'can't sleep in an unlabelled environment'. Planning on labelling the arena too?  
 **S.H:** The boy probably will, let's be honest with ourselves.

 **#12:** **Do not wake Seeder up at 4:30AM to lecture her about how loud her snoring is.**  
 **B.R:** You've doomed us all…  
 **S.H:** _**When I can't sleep in my bed I get red in the head!**_

 **#13: Don't wake everybody up at 6AM sharp and tell us that breakfast will be served at 6:05 on the dot.**  
 **B.R:** You don't set the rules here and, as before, Seeder doesn't act herself when she hasn't gotten enough sleep.  
 **S.H:** _ **I nEeD sLeEp!**_

 **#14: When being escorted towards the car that shall take you to the remake centre do not tell the Peacekeeper Captain that he put his shirt on backwards and how this does not reflect his rank.**  
 **B.R:** Honestly Chaff, are you trying to get yourself killed? I saw his fingers twitch around the trigger of his gun.  
 **S.H:** For the record, I approve of how you made his underlings laugh at him.

 **#15: Do not complain that the car is wasteful because it only does 'six miles to the gallon'.**  
 **B.R:** That's something a tribute from Six would know – _and also shouldn't do_ – so how the hell do you know about all this?  
 **S.H:** I applaud the driver keeping his temper in check and not throwing you onto the road.

 **#16: Don't correct the prep team when they get literally all the facts they thought they knew about District Eleven completely wrong.**  
 **B.R:** I think their brains broke. They're still not responding to this new reality they're in, just staring and drooling.  
 **S.H:** This also means some peacekeepers are gonna be styling you up now.

 **#17: Do not yell at the top of your lungs that 'rough touching is not appropriate for a Capitol environment'.**  
 **B.R:** I need a frickin' drink.  
 **S.H:** Make it two.

 **#18: At the tribute parade do not scold the horse handlers for feeding candy canes to the horses instead of apples.**  
 **B.R:** Even the horse was giving you the evil eye for taking away it's favourite snack.  
 **S.H:** I know the parade is about getting attention on yourself, but not like that!

 **#19: Don't complain your own outfit doesn't quite fit you and start making your own improvements and a formal letter of complaint with seven dozen suggestions for how it might be done better.**  
 **B.R:** I get it, being dressed up like a pumpkin is pretty bad. The neon orange makes it worse. But, Chaff, are you a fashion expert? Actually, don't answer that, I'm worried you might say yes.  
 **S.H:** Just grit your teeth and bare it. Or do what Bear did and scowl at the crowd.

 **#20: Don't complain about the District One tributes having wholly inappropriate outfits 'not welcome in a parade environment'.**  
 **B.R:** This is the Capitol, those tiny outfits are plenty welcome. No, you don't want to know. Trust me.  
 **S.H:** They were worse in my year. Just loin clothes and gold body paint.

 **#21: Don't loudly tell Klink to put his dick away. It's just really awkward for everybody involved.**  
 **B.R:** I'm still cringing. The therapist needs therapy now, how ironic…  
 **S.H:** I saw the damn thing moving all on its own!

 **#22: When the Capitol citizens throw roses towards you don't call them out for wasting highly endangered plant life and suggest they use fake ones. Questioning their pampered bubble of a world just makes their brains break.**  
 **B.R:** They're still catatonic from the realisation problems exist.  
 **S.H:** Honestly I prefer them that way. Alas, those of authority don't seem to agree.

 **#23: When President Snow makes a short speech to the tributes don't loudly correct him on his grammar.**  
 **B.R:** I'll be amazed if they don't just blow up the mines around your launch plate after a display like that.  
 **S.H:** Same. I'll also win five caps if they don't.

 **#24: When arriving at the District Eleven floor it is considered to be really bad form to put on white gloves, trace a finger across the kitchen counter and claim that the dust is a massive failure in room keeping standards.**  
 **B.R:** Seriously, Avoxes might get killed for that! Not only that, but in a battle to the death you're considered about dust? Fucking dust?!  
 **S.H:** This is the same boy who considered our escort's toilet plunger fashion style worth raising a complaint over. We both know it's going to get worse.

 **#25: While you can exit your room at any time you'd like, it's not excusable to leave the District Eleven floor with the intent of waking every tribute and mentor up at 6AM. Who is even awake at that ungodly hour anyway?**  
 **B.R:** If your plan was to ensure everybody is too tired and bitter to train properly I'll give you points for creativity. But in all likelihood you were not, so I must ask… what the hell were you thinking Chaff?!  
 **S.H:** _**I nEeD cOfFeE Or I'M gOnNa ScReAm!**_

 **#26: Listing the numerous health issues that come with eating lucky charms and requesting a nice, health breakfast of bran flakes for everybody is** **not appreciated** **.**  
 **B.R:** Lucky charms are one of the few joys in my life.  
 **S.H:** You've doomed us all. Or at least ruined our morning. Shame on you Chaff!

 **#27: During the elevator ride down towards the training station it is never suggested that you correct the uniforms of the other tributes who you already annoyed by waking them up too early.**  
 **B.R:** They have bigger concerns than their clothes. Like, say… not being killed?!  
 **S.H:** Complain all you want Chaff, you deserved that wedgie the boy from Two gave you.

 **#28: When the head trainer explains how the training centre works it's probably best to keep your mouth shut and not point out that the lack of an interpreter makes it unfair for the deaf boy from Eight.**  
 **B.R:** He's your opponent, it helps you to just let things be. The trainers don't give a crap about the tributes; they don't see any of you as actual people.  
 **S.H:** Apparently a lot of the trainers were making gestures towards you after that. …No, they weren't speaking sign language, they were miming shooting you.

 **#29: If complaining about Klink's nakedness didn't work before now, what makes you think a grand speech over decency and public safety in front of everybody will change anything?**  
 **B.R:** Congratulations, Klink now officially wants you to be his first kill in the arena. Maybe sooner.  
 **S.H:** Planter is also pretending she has no idea who you are anymore.

 **#30: Calling out the trainers for not keeping the training centre tidy just pisses them off. Especially when the trash amounted to a single empty packet of chips.**  
 **B.R:** There are skewed priorities… and there there's whatever the hell you're doing.  
 **S.H:** I think you'll find it's called 'living on another planet'.

 **#31: It's a good idea to train with knives as they're the most common weapon within the arena. It's not a good idea to cause an angry queue to form because you spend so long arranging the knives in groups based on type, length and size.**  
 **B.R:** Organising supplies is a good time managing skill for any tribute, but not to this level. Strange theory here, maybe the rest care more about living than being tidy? Just a thought.  
 **S.H:** I just keep trying to delude myself into thinking that you're doing this to prevent the others from training properly.

 **#32: When a career tribute swears for emphasis as they strike a dummy with a sword it's really not recommended that you scold them for bad language and yell 'BLEEP' any time they try to curse.**  
 **B.R:** They're allowed to swear just like you're allowed to choose not to. Trust me, when you're suffering in that arena – if you survive the first ten minutes – you'll give in and swear as well.  
 **S.H:** That boy from One is probably going to swear all the more now solely out of spite.

 **#33: When a career threatens you just run away or, if you're particularly tough, just stand and take it. Don't critique their threats!**  
 **B.R:** I'm not sure whether to laugh or just groan. I'll probably do both. But seriously… 'you've hardly used any four syllable words', 'my self-esteem is still intact'…  
 **S.H:** 'You could have done a lot more with that mace you're holding' and 'I should be on the ground, like so'. Forget the boy from One, you just made an enemy of the girl from Two.

 **#34: Telling people that there is no running in the halls – or the training floor or whatever you said – is pointless. Especially if the boy from Four was running laps.**  
 **B.R:** Don't even think about saying there's no running in the arena either.  
 **S.H:** I see that look in his eyes Bear, he's thinking it.

 **#35:** **Telling the other tributes to line up in district order for lunch and that scrambling into a mismatched queue is against the spirit of the nation is only going to get you smacked.**  
 **B.R:** Your nose hurts? Come talk to me when you know what it's like to have a sickle have half its blade struck into your shoulder.  
 **S.H:** Better yet, come talk when you suffer more than two hundred lashings from a whip in public.

 **#36: Keeping the ten tributes behind you from eating because you want to be sure your food has the exact amount of protein a 'growing boy' needs will get you worse than a smack.**  
 **B.R:** Same as what I said before except replace the sickle with being stabbed three times by the knife of a girl from One.  
 **S.H:** Same here, except instead of lashings it's a knife in the shoulder from a desperate miner boy.

 **#37: When a food fight breaks out the absolute last thing you should be doing is tackling the one who started it to the ground and starting to lecture them about hygiene and maturity.**  
 **B.R:** The boy from Seven was never going to listen. The clearest sign should've been the fact he was a diagnosed sociopath  
 **S.H:** That and the fact he is thirteen.

 **#38: I don't care how much you think every life matters, it's just plain stupid to let the bugs at the edible bugs training station make their way to freedom by throwing a jar of them out the window of the eleventh floor.**  
 **B.R:** However, I applaud and approve of the fact lots of them went in the hair of more than a few of the most awful Capitolites I've come across in my days as a victor.  
 **S.H:** Too bad it means more pain for you in the arena. Though, isn't stealing the bugs from the training centre a rule violation in itself Chaff?

 **#39: Claiming the amount of training stations on offer is insufficient is a good way to make the gamemakers test out their traps on you in the not so near future.**  
 **B.R:** They might not have a bottomless supply of areas to train you in, but they sure have a bottomless amount of torture methods.  
 **S.H:** Apparently they have a special kind of flea mutt that exists only to burrow into a tribute's eyes. Make of that what you will.

 **#40: Getting rid of all the chocolate spread at lunch of the second training day because it will 'ruin everybody's teeth' is just plain heartless.**  
 **B.R:** Their teeth are going to be broken soon anyway, just like their bones. Let them have their damn chocolate.  
 **S.H:** Oh, and don't try to get rid of the marmalade either. I see those gears in your mind turning!

 **#41: Telling everybody to hurry up and make the most of their final morning of training is rude. Proceeding to tell everybody they are spending their time wrong and should focus on the training stations you're using is annoying as sin.**  
 **B.R:** I mean, really, when will making hammocks help? It's literally never helped a single tribute in any meaningful way.  
 **S.H:** Same for sucking poison from somebody else's wound. It just won't help you and I'd put money on this.

 **#42:** **When waiting for private training to start you should just sit quietly. Scolding others for making popping sounds with their mouths only further makes you get targeted.**  
 **B.R:** Actually, go for it. I can't stand those noises either.  
 **S.H:** Well I can and I don't want Chaff to die in the first ten seconds!

 **#43: When entering for your own private training session you should just go all out and impress the gamemakers like your life depends on it… because it does! Not scold them for being bad at their jobs because they were too busy drinking and eating to listen to your opening speech that took five minutes of your time.**  
 **B.R:** How did you score a seven? I was starting to think you'd score a one and have something in common with Snag.  
 **S.H:** I thought the gamemakers would alter their own rules and give a zero personally.

 **#44: Demonstrate some really cool skills. Not how effectively you can stop somebody from running in the halls!**  
 **B.R:** Technically speaking you're right that stopping tributes from running is important, but not in the way you're thinking of.  
 **S.H:** I'm just amazed the trainer agreed to take part in that reconstruction of a typical day at your school.

 **#45: Thanking the gamemakers for their time is generally a harmless gesture of politeness. Asking the Head Gamemaker if he knows he's got weasels on his face is not.**  
 **B.R:** It's the latest fashion style. Apparently.  
 **S.H:** No, we don't get it either.

 **#46:** **When watching the scores get revealed it's really not appropriate to call out anybody who you think cheated to get a higher score or got screwed over and given a score you think is too low.**  
 **B.R:** Your score should be the only one that matters to you. At this point I have no idea if seven is too high or low for you. Just be glad it's decent.  
 **S.H:** Stop complaining about wanting an even number. Just be happy it wasn't under a five. …Ok, fine, I admit it: Klink didn't deserve an eight.

 **#47:** **When waiting in line for your interview it's expected for you to be a good little tribute and not say a word. Yelling from backstage that Klink is a shameless scarlet man isn't appropriate for any environment. Period!**  
 **B.R:** If anything you probably made his interview more memorable and guaranteed he'll get extra support! I don't hate the boy, I just don't want a naked guy in the mentoring station next year!  
 **S.H:** I'm starting to wonder if duct tape will be the answer to solving our issues here. It'd at least stop my ears from ringing.

 **#48: It's also a bad idea to call out the boy from Ten for not having his shirt tucked in correctly.**  
 **B.R:** Don't look so shocked that he vowed to wedgie you to death. That's what happens to stuffy know-it-alls. It was worth when I was young.  
 **S.H:** There's a time and a place to enforce rules. The Capitol is not that place. It! Is! Not!

 **#49: Don't criticise Caesar's choice in yearly hair colour… just don't.**  
 **B.R:** Spending half of your interview talking about the rebellious, mean spirited connotations of lime green… why am I still being shocked at the things you're doing?  
 **S.H:** And of all colours you suggest him to switch to you come up with 'mockingjay gold'. Really Chaff?

 **#50: If you must talk about school then talk about accidents in class or interesting clubs you're a member of. Don't ramble on about the uniform and how nice it looks without creases!**  
 **B.R:** Honestly, who in the Capitol is going to care about a school uniform? Name me a single person who'd show even a little fraction of interesting for half of a second.  
 **S.H:** In fairness these people dress like toilet plunges and bottles of wine. Is a school uniform from some inner city school really such a stretch? If anything it's better than the norm.

 **#51: It's always risky to bring up tributes who died in previous years. If you must do so, don't bring them up solely to talk about the fact they collected pencils!**  
 **B.R:** I hated the fact Carrot died as well last year, but that was because he was a nice kid. Not because he collected pencils!  
 **S.H:** Better than the tribute blood sample collection that weirdo on Fall Street has going on.

 **#52: On the night before the Games you should get as much sleep as you can. Not stay up late to catch up on late homework!**  
 **B.R:** It's summer! Who the hell cares about homework at this point? Not to mention that 'I got reaped for the Games' is the perfect excuse if anything was late!  
 **S.H:** They also take victors out of school if they're fourteen or older, just saying.

 **#53: When riding the hovercraft to the arena the absolute last thing you ought to do is pester the peacekeepers about how thoughtless and crude of them it is to put on an R rated movie when there are two twelve year olds present.**  
 **B.R:** Just let the poor kids see breasts once before they die.  
 **S.H:** …Or, you know, don't antagonist peacekeepers when they could easily break your arms before launch if they feel like it? Honestly Bear, what the hell was that…?

 **#54: Just put on your damn tribute outfit. Don't call out the Capitol for inappropriateness for the fact it's short legged and has no sleeves.**  
 **B.R:** It's better than the wedding dresses the girls of the Thirty Eighth had to wear and you know it!  
 **S.H:** Does he though? I'm honestly not convinced, to be honest.

 **#55: When you first see the arena you shouldn't start to criticise it! Beauty is in the eye of the beholder… oh, and the gamemakers could blow you up.**  
 **B.R:** I'm not sure why they didn't. That must have irked them.  
 **S.H:** Probably to make sure we keep suffering.

 **#56: Don't shout at Klink for stripping off in five seconds flat. Who cares if 'nudity is not welcome in an arena environment?!'**  
 **B.R:** Instead of scolding him why not look around the noxious junkyard you're in the middle of for anything notable. Same for the canyons beyond it.  
 **S.H:** We're not dealing with a normal male tribute this year, let's face it.

 **#57: When the boy from Six falls off his pedestal the absolute last thing you should even think of saying is 'keep your balance better next time by holding out your arms'. What the hell Chaff?**  
 **B.R:** One down, twenty two to go. At least that kid went quick.  
 **S.H:** I doubt Chaff will go down quick, or quietly for that matter.

 **#58: Some tributes kill others in the bloodbath. Others grab what they can and then leave. Some just leg it. A few hide around the area and then grab stuff when the careers leave. Why oh why did you not do that and instead chased Klink around to try and force a pair of underpants on him?**  
 **B.R:** Credit where it's due though, strangling him to death with the underwear is pretty original.  
 **S.H:** You're just lucky the boy from One was laughing too hard at the sight to even think of throwing a spear at you!

 **#59: Complaining about all the split blood and how there should've been a mop added to the Cornucopia to aid in cleaning it all up achieves nothing.**  
 **B.R:** It was hardly the worst bloodbath. Most victor say their own is, but really the First Games had the worst one.  
 **S.H:** It really says something that this bloodbath, one where two tributes had their heads smashed a pipe and another had their kidneys torn out, wasn't the worst.

 **#60: Run for your life you fool! Don't scold the girl from One for murder as she charges at you with a knife!**  
 **B.R:** Run! Get out there! Stop scolding her and run you stupid… oh… huh… how's he do that?  
 **S.H:** Break her arm? Lawful and stupid as he is, Chaff is still six foot and four inches. He's a tough boy.

 **#61: When the boy from One fails to hit you with any of the six knives he throws it's never wise to yell pointers for his aim towards him as you run away.**  
 **B.R:** We're not winning this year are we?  
 **S.H:** With Planter dead? I sincerely doubt it… I need a moment…

 **#62: Lecturing the gamemakers for using non-recyclable plastic water bottles… just… why?!**  
 **B.R:** Whatever next, scolding them for not adding plants that are accurate to the arena's terrain?  
 **S.H:** Don't jinx it.

 **#63: Scolding the gamemakers for adding plants that do not make sense in a canyon sort of arena makes you look like a know-it-all prat.**  
 **B.R:** Don't even say it Seeder.  
 **S.H:** Well, only since you asked so nicely.

 **#64: When nightfall arrives, it is common sense to hide yourself. High ground, a cave, even hiding under dead leaves… just be stealthy. Labelling your entire campsite with that stupid sticker label device you were sponsored is stupid and dangerous.**  
 **B.R:** If the careers don't find you either you're the most unrealistically lucky tribute in history or they're just a really bad pack. I'm not sure which.  
 **S.H:** They can't be too terrible. Aside Klink, they were responsible for the other nine bloodbath deaths and they just tracked down that poor girl from Nine. You should go comfort Gwenith.

 **#65: If you find a sleeping tribute because you woke up early and kept moving either kill them quickly or steal their stuff and run. Do not wake them to scold them for loud snoring!**  
 **B.R:** I hate seeing my tributes hurt, but honestly Chaff deserves that cut up his cheek for doing something so dumb.  
 **S.H:** He deserves it no more than the boy from Six deserved to be killed today. He doesn't deserve it at all Bear.

 **#66: When wandering around with a fresh wound most tributes try to keep themselves from making any sound, lest they attract tributes towards themselves. They don't loudly list all of their problems over a period of forty minutes!**  
 **B.R:** You were lucky that the career pack were at the far side of the arena when you were doing that.  
 **S.H:** You were also lucky the other outliers assumed you had some kind of nasty traps waiting for them. They didn't realise you weren't luring them and that you're just weird.

 **#67: Don't try to tame mutts and be the 'order to their chaos'. It's not worth it.**  
 **B.R:** Mutts exist literally for the purpose of killing. The day a tribute tames a mutt is the day I'll eat my own hair.  
 **S.H:** If a tribute did they'd have to be at least thirty in an adult only quell or something like that. Nobody twelve to eighteen has that much experience with animal handling.

 **#68:** **If another tribute is climbing up a cliff why not take the time to job a spear at them? Don't admonish them for climbing unsupervised!**  
 **B.R:** Was he trying to distract the boy from Eight to make him fall to his death? The gamemakers are counting this one as Chaff's kill.  
 **S.H:** Honestly I'm starting to not even know anymore.

 **#69: When a tribute falls to their death just pillage their supplies and run. Don't waste an hour cleaning them up to look presentable.**  
 **B.R:** How did nobody kill him while he was doing that? He was wide open!  
 **S.H:** They think he's got some kind of hidden trap or skill. Like I said, they don't believe that a person could do what he is doing and not have a nasty plan in store.

 **#70: Calling out the gamemakers for using coyotes that aren't the correct colours for this sort of terrain will not fix anything, it just gets more sent at you.**  
 **B.R:** How many are chasing this boy now?  
 **S.H:** Twenty. I need a frickin' drink… again.

 **#71: Scattered shards of metal and other such junk should be considered as makeshift weaponry. Don't waste time collecting them for the sole purpose of putting them into a recycling bin!**  
 **B.R:** Your life, allegedly, matters more and the Capitol creates far more waste than this in all its excess. This changes nothing.  
 **S.H:** Wouldn't mind seeing a Capitol Games set in their massive garbage dump at the city limits…

 **#72: As above, use them as weapons or even armour. Don't use them to make a large sign listing arena rules.**  
 **B.R:** There are no rules in the arena aside not speaking about rebellion. Focus on survival!  
 **S.H:** Technically cannibalism is also against the rules. I'm sure nobody wants to end up like the horrible girl from Ten in the first quell.

 **#73: When a fire breaks out in the junkyard** _ **run away**_ **! Don't stop to remind the boy from Twelve about fire safety protocol!**  
 **B.R:** He was already on fire and probably couldn't hear you over his own screaming.  
 **S.H:** That poor boy…

 **#74: If another tribute has gone crazy because they saw somebody get cut in half in front of them it's really better to just avoid them. The insane are dangerously hard to predict. Trying to suggest therapy methods to them is foolish.**  
 **B.R:** You're lucky that girl only had a dagger and not a sword.  
 **S.H:** He's unlucky because she's alive and on the hunt again. Maybe we'll win next year…

 **#75: When it's hot and you're getting dehydrated it is common sense to seek shade and ration your water. It's also a good idea to take off your shirt to stay cool. It's stupid to stay fully dressed if this is making you sweat badly.**  
 **B.R:** I know being any form of naked is 'not welcome in an arena environment' or whatever it was you said, but between your life and keeping your shirt on… oh come on, the choice is obvious!  
 **S.H:** To clarify, since you'll obviously misinterpret that, Bear means to just take your shirt off!

 **#76: If you see the career pack starting to turn on one of their own keep away from them. Don't call out the boy from Two as a coward for daring to hit a girl. Don't you remember that Cosmo tried to kill you… and that you broke her arm?**  
 **B.R:** This is starting to get really unrealistic. I must be dreaming.  
 **S.H:** Only just starting to get unrealistic? Oh what a wonderful world you must live in…

 **#77: If you kick the boy from Two in his crotch be quick to finish the job. Don't apologise for an underhanded strike!**  
 **B.R:** Kill him, he's down! He's down!  
 **S.H:** Nevermind that, run! The others are closing in!

 **#78: If the boy from One and pair from Two are chasing you across open terrain you need to either keep running for as long as you can or make a sudden attack they'd never see coming. Not look back to scold them for making rude gestures at you.**  
 **B.R:** Be glad those gestures were all they ended up doing to you before you outran them.  
 **S.H:** How is this boy the strongest tribute we've had in years and the weakest as well? I don't get it.

 **#79: If you get a sponsor just claim the content and keep moving. Don't spend an hour neatly folding the parachute like it were a blanket or something.**  
 **B.R:** Spare me a bit of that drink?  
 **S.H:** Get your own bottle, this one's mine.

 **#80: When a hurricane hits the canyons you should duck and cover! Get in a cave if you can. Don't complain about the hurricane making dust get in your eyes and say you want paperwork to file a complaint.**  
 **B.R:** I think they're only keeping him alive because the Capitol citizens think his skewed priorities are funny to watch.  
 **S.H:** I give him two days at best before he dies.

 **#81: When the boy from Two confronts you all by himself don't monologue to him about how you'll put a stop to his chaotic, rule breaking ways. By the same logic he should not monologue either.**  
 **B.R:** You know, Chaff's one crazy boy but… I think he could win, honestly? Something just changed in his eyes Seeder.  
 **S.H:** Maybe it's the fact he just got his hand sliced off?

 **#82: Do whatever it takes to take your mind off the pain, but did you really have the shout the theme song for Fiona & Lawrence while bandaging your stump?**  
 **B.R:** I'm never going to get that song out of my head, am I?  
 **S.H:** If it keeps him alive then I say let him. Only eight left now.

 **#83: Yelling that you won't be playing by the rules anymore is never wise. The gamemakers are gonna take you up on that and hit you with everything they've got.**  
 **B.R:** Believe me, they have a lot. They don't need to poison you like they did to me to make you suffer.  
 **S.H:** I'm honestly just curious what Chaff's idea of deliberate rule breaking is going to be like.

 **#84: Vandalising the junkyard and spray painting rude images on the cornucopia, while not exactly rebellious per say, only gets a bolt of lightning sent towards you.**  
 **B.R:** The gamemakers must be getting sloppy. That bolt completely missed him.  
 **S.H:** It didn't miss the career's supplies though.

 **#85:** **Yelling that President Snow's beard 'looks like somebody glued an albino hedgehog to his face' might not really bother the man all that much, but it still means he'll tell the gamemakers to send the careers right towards you.**  
 **B.R:** You should've gone for gold and insulted his mother.  
 **S.H:** Or, you know, not said anything at all. Just a thought.

 **#86: When the cannon fires after the eighth placer bites it, don't ask if that volume is all they've got. They can make the next cannon louder. Much louder.**  
 **B.R:** It's gonna be at least two days before Chaff's hearing comes back.  
 **S.H:** Perhaps, but the same could be said for all of the other five tributes as well.

 **#87:** **When a Feast is called you don't have to attend, but you shouldn't yell that the reason you will not go is because the arena food is of 'piss poor quality'. Sponsor prices for you specifically will get doubled.**  
 **B.R:** He's on his own now. Think he'll reach final four?  
 **S.H:** I'm still struggling to accept this boy is in the top six.

 **#88:** **When the gamemakers force you to attend by sending vultures after you it's really pushing your luck to say vultures only eat dead things and that they should call the birdie bastards off of you.**  
 **B.R:** It only made them double the swarm that was chasing you.  
 **S.H:** It also made them peck much harder than before. Sigh…

 **#89: Run in, grab what you need and then run away. Don't pour a canister of engine oil from the junkyard all over the food and drink because you think it's been prepared horribly.**  
 **B.R:** Just for that the kitchen crew have suspended our lucky charms privileges until the next Quarter Quell. Good going Chaff!  
 **S.H:** Run! The other tributes look pissed!

 **#90: Taunting other tributes can be a good way to put them off of their guard, but did you need to tell Cosmos that looked like 'ass salad'? Even the Capitolites cringed when you said that.**  
 **B.R:** What does it even mean?  
 **S.H:** I have no idea. All I know is that the girl from Seven just broke Cosmos' other arm and slit her throat. Top five.

 **#91: It's cruel, not to mention bizarre to scold the girl from Seven – real name Leafy Hillenburg – she did it wrong and demonstrate on her how to slit a throat properly.**  
 **B.R:** I'm not sure you did it properly either and the audience is already calling you out on this one.  
 **S.H:** Run! The boy from One has a crossbow!

 **#92: Telling Pride from One that he aims like a 'drunken pixie mutt' gets him angry and gets you an arrow to your ass, as you just found out.**  
 **B.R:** Our boy has a death wish. That's the only logical explanation.  
 **S.H:** I think it's bold of you to assume logic even applies to this particular Hunger Games anymore.

 **#93: Yelling out, for the whole nation to hear, that Pride slept with the Head Gamemaker's wife in hopes of getting him attacked by mutts will not work.**  
 **B.R:** They're both into polyamory. That means literally nothing to them even if Pride actually did.  
 **S.H:** I want to get out of this damn city.

 **#94: When you're in pain it is, as already mentioned, not a good idea to shout he Fiona and Lawrence theme song. However, it's even worse to sing the theme song to 'Dora the Explorer'.**  
 **B.R:** Of all the annoying things that survived the Dark Days why did it have to be that damn show? Maybe it's part of why Capitol kids are so stupid. Gwenith always backs me up on this one.  
 **S.H:** How did Chaff get the time to watch it and memorise them theme song in the few days he spent in the Capitol?

 **#95: When you're making your way to the top of the canyons to get the high ground for the finale, is it really necessary to tear out all of the few flowers of the arena on the way up and throw them over the edge?**  
 **B.R:** Just a waste of precious time, really.  
 **S.H:** The botanist amongst the gamemakers who genetically engineered those flowers is also crying for her 'hard work being tainted'… good work.

 **#96: Rolling large rocks down the slopes towards the other three tributes while jumping around and making gorilla noises embarrass District Eleven. Please stop.**  
 **B.R:** Of all creatures, why a gorilla? And what is Caesar talking about when he mentioned 'Donkey Kong'?  
 **S.H:** I don't know. All I know is that it's almost over and we should be glad for that.

 **#97: When Pride is the only other tribute left after pushing the other two off the edge of the canyon you should be careful. Not say he looks like a scared little boy who needs a big hug.**  
 **B.R:** I have no idea how that stab to your hip didn't end up killing you.  
 **S.H:** Maybe dying isn't 'welcome in an arena environment'. Just watch me end up being right.

 **#98: When Pride mocks your family and calls your mother and sister a 'pair of whores' don't rise to the bait. Especially don't tackle him; he'll cut you up!**  
 **B.R:** Clearly not enough to kill Chaff though. Damn, he's got him! He's got him!  
 **S.H:** Is Chaff… going to _win_?

 **#99: If you have to brag in Pride's face before throwing him off the canyon to his doom make it a cool one liner. Don't waste three minutes talking about how being ambidextrous means losing your left hand is no big deal.**  
 **B.R:** That went from intense to just plain underwhelming.  
 **S.H:** Perhaps, but a win's a win.

 **#100: When you've won the Hunger Games and the hovercraft comes down to collect you… DO NOT ask if that was 'all the Capitol had'.**  
 **B.R:** They will always have more pain in store for those who question their power.  
 **S.H:** It's been quite a year. Once again, I need a frickin' drink…

* * *

Chaff went home lacking a hand and much of his dignity. He'd refused a prosthetic, not wishing to have any symbol of the Capitol on him for even a moment. His return was met with much cheering and applause. That, and a bit of sheepish awkwardness.

He was not the Chaff Mitchell who had been reaped. Mainly because none of them had been reaped in the first place. It turned out that the escort had not worn her glasses for the sake of having her toilet plunger fashion 'looking right' and had therefore misread the name on the reaping paper.

It had been the one and only 'Chuff Mitchell' who had been the intended tribute for the Games.

Chaff was forever changed after his nightmare of an experience. He'd followed the rules all of his life and enforced them around each and every turn, only to get thrown into an arena and be treated like an animal for all to see. Following the rules and being such a stickler for order had not been worth it. It only caused him the greatest pain in his life.

It had taken going into the arena to see it, but Chaff had discovered he had a new passion. One for which he had a considerably high talent and a strong willingness to put it into action.

Being a hardcore rebel. He vowed, after he finished his first six pack of beer of the day, he'd join this rebel group of victors Seeder had discreetly mentioned to him.

* * *

Katniss and Peeta kept their respectful silence for Chaff going for a little while longer.

"Rest in peace Chaff," Katniss whispered.

"Rest in peace," Peeta echoed.

With that being said the pair from Twelve continued their walk further down the street. It wasn't more than a few seconds before they came to the next face of the street. They gazed down at the imprinted face of an oriental girl with short cut hair, a small nose, a scar across her left cheek and what appeared to be a pearl necklace. If one looked closely the girl seemed just a little bit uneasy.

"Mercy Gregor," Katniss read. "Hm, ironic name for a career."

"Not for her Games specifically," Peeta said. "The reaping of that one… there was so much riggage. It's hard to know where to begin when bringing them up."

* * *

Hope you guys liked this chapter. Not a common interpretation of Chaff, huh? I figured that some of his habits, like rebellious actions and drinking, happened mostly post-games. But making him so incredibly gung-ho about rules and order… I won't lie, it came to me because I rewatched the Spongebob episode where he becomes a hall monitor and I thought it'd be fucking hilarious to add it in here. I'm quite pleased with the result and the irregular chapter format, but you guys can be the final judges. Was it good? Bad? Either way, stay tuned for more!

* * *

 **Stats**

 **District 1:** Peridot Gaudy (8th Games), Crystal McCree (14th Games), Bronze Marley (19th Games), Crown Martins (24th Games), Dollar Dettwieller (32nd Games), Mascara Court (41st Games), Platinum Twist (44th Games)

 **District 2:** Baron Overwhill (4th Games), Runa Peace (7th Games), Olga Machete (10th Games), Rook Valiant (17th Games), Boulder Atherston (20th Games), Vercingetorix Carnby (25th Games), Dragon Batofel (27th Games), Rhyder Overwhill (39th Games)

 **District 3:** Honorius Perthshire (5th Games), Pi Orbit (22nd Games), Beetee Latier (37th Games)

 **District 4:** Museida Selkirk (3rd Games), Mags Flanagan (11th Games), Tide Luther (23rd Games), Librae Ogilvy (35th Games)

 **District 5:** Shunt Gaspar (12th Games), Isobel Sparks (18th Games), Crimson Flanders (29th Games), Porter Tripp (38th Games)

 **District 6:** Chassis Macalister (31st Games)

 **District 7:** Pliny Aransio (2nd Games), Fir Buzz (9th Games), Jack Tylos (21st Games), Snag Nakamura (34th Games)

 **District 8:** Woof Casino (16th Games), Paige Murphy (30th Games), Spool Nylon (42nd Games)

 **District 9:** Mizar Aldjoy (1st Games), Gwenith Rosebud (13th Games), Teff Withers (28th Games), Laurel Flamsteel (36th Games), Tabbock Summers (43rd Games)

 **District 10:** Stallion March (26th Games), Lammy Phyronix (40th Games)

 **District 11:** Bear Redfoot (15th Games), Seeder Howell (33rd Games), Chaff Mitchell (45th Games)

 **District 12:** Duke Saint-Rose (6th Games)


	47. Mercy Gregor

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Hunger Games. They belong to Suzanne Collins.

 **Note:** Another career… and the first District Two Female since Olga. I honestly didn't intend for such a lack of D2F Victors, but as is often the case with my stuff it just… kind of happened that way. But, hopefully Mercy makes up for the long wait. Rigged reapings are generally accepted as a thing that happens for a variety of reasons… so, naturally, I had to take things to the logical (illogical?) extreme. Let's see what the career girl makes of it!

* * *

"Rigged reapings?" Katniss said in response to Peeta's words. "Rigged in what way? Rebels."

"Not quite," Peeta paused, looking ill. "Apparently the districts had been acting up that year. Chaff told me about this; basically, it got out that he had been incorrectly reaped and was never meant to be in the arena. 'Chuff Mitchell' was. The Capitol stamped out rebellion, but it cost them time, resources and some lives."

"So they took it out on the reaping aged children," Katniss concluded, sighing. "Was it children of those who caused the most damage?"

"In some cases maybe, I don't know," Peeta paused, his face turning at least four shades paler. "The careers volunteered as they always did, but the kids reaped before them… and every single other tribute… was just twelve years old."

Katniss looked mortified at the very thought of this.

* * *

 **46th Annual Hunger Games**

 **Name:** Mercy Gregor

 **Gender:** Female

 **District:** 2

 **Age:** 18

 **Kills:** 3

* * *

Mercy Gregor arrived at the reaping for the Forty Sixth Hunger Games with a smile on her face.

A top graduate of Machete Ridge and excelling in all forms of combat across the board, she was deemed as the obvious choice for the female candidate for the Forty Sixth Hunger Games. Mercy felt confident of her own ability to survive and be the first girl from her district to make it home ever since headmistress Olga had done so over thirty years ago.

She wasn't just confident. She was honoured. Having grown up in a family of bricklayers she was the type to be very focused on structure and support. To her, the guidance of the Capitol was exactly the sort of support that Panem, the remnants of humanity, needed. Was their rule fair or just, exactly? Not always. But it prevented war, it prevented more widescale murder, rape and pillaging as was seen in the dark days she's been told of over the years. Compared to that two lives a year did not seem so bad in comparison.

More than that, the career system that Olga preceded over – her predecessor had already begun to fade from memory – was the exact system of support District Two needed most of all. It kept their youths strong, disciplined, healthy and, most importantly, readied them for the arena. So long as there were two strong young adults each year no kid had to face the arena when they were not ready for it.

Mercy would admit to letting out a sigh of relief any time she saw a twelve year old spared by a volunteer, whether it was in her district or another, because realistically they had no chance of winning.

That, and she liked kids. They were innocent, sweet… nice.

If killing was what she had to do to ensure the peace was kept and, in the grand scheme, as few people were hurt as possible then so be it. She could win with as few kills as possible; it was not a requirement for a tribute from Two to get as many kills as possible. Just as many as needed to keep themselves alive and, ideally, victorious.

She could handle taking down any sixteen year old that even looked at her funny.

It was with much pride that, when a twelve year old was reaped, Mercy volunteered for the Hunger Games and stood on stage. The applause was appreciated, but the knowledge of an innocent being spared and being able to play her part in keeping the nation and humanity itself stable as a perfect brick wall? That was priceless.

As Mercy and her burly district partner Kadrian were taken into the justice building to await any visitors that wished to see them, she felt like she was exactly where she needed to be. Exactly where the nation needed her to be. It had been drilled into her head for many, many years just how vital this was and the honour such a task truly was.

Mercy had no idea just how much she had been lied to nor how she was in exactly the wrong place.

* * *

The train ride started off as it normally did. The tributes of the year were fawned over by the escort, Olga would lay claim to the strongest tribute (Kadrian, though only by a tiny margin she would admit), Rook would be forbidden from mentoring at all, the other victors would decide amongst themselves who got the unclaimed tribute and who would be on sponsor duty (Rhyder was assigned to mentor Mercy) and the District Two team would settle down to a fine meal.

It was all Mercy had dreamed it would be and more. She felt nothing could ruin the wonderful day she was having, least of all the amazing gammon steak she had been served.

"What can you do?" Olga had soon asked her, after having asked the same of Kadrian. "Strengths and weaknesses."

"I scored top marks in swordplay, archery, long distance running, weight lifting and first aid," Mercy checked all of this off on her fingers as she spoke. "I honestly cannot think of any weaknesses I have. There was never a time where somebody at the academy told me I was falling behind in anything."

"You might be pegged as a threat to eliminate. Same for you Kadrian, given you're all that and even more muscle mass," Olga stated.

"You say that like it's a bad thing," Kadrian said, flexing. "We'll do fine."

"I'm sure you will, but don't get overconfident," Olga replied. "Also, never do what Rook did."

Rook casually flipped Olga off as he took a beer out of the cooler, idly removing the cap.

"Or, you know, do what I did. I won, remember," Rook said, sipping his drink.

"Yes, and I hate that fact more every day," Olga muttered, rolling her eyes.

Before long the new tributes were sat down to watch the reaping recaps alongside the mentors. Baron and Runa soon excused themselves, not wishing to look this year's dead kids walking in their eyes as they realised they were doomed. Boulder soon left, making up some meaningless excuse. Dragon just snorted as the married couple and 'half man' left.

"Wimps," he remarked, opening a beer can of his own.

Rhyder eyed the challenge runner coldly, but otherwise did not comment. Vercingetorix eyed him as well, also deciding to say nothing. It was a rare occasion when the victor of the first quell ever said a word, all the fight having been butchered out of him over twenty years ago.

Mercy didn't react to any of this, more concerned with watching the reapings with attentive eyes for any possibly allies or major threats to make note of.

District One had a pair of volunteers as it always did, both of them beautiful and strong. Obvious allies, per the norm. Mercy allowed herself to briefly smile as she watched herself volunteer, soon followed by Kadrian. Both of them looked formidable for all the nation to see.

Mercy's smile faltered briefly when District Three had a pair of twelve year olds reaped, not a single volunteer to be seen. Mercy couldn't think about leaving them to the other careers for long, bot when the reapings continued. District Four also had a pair of twelve year olds… strange, but not unheard of.

Mercy's smile was quickly banished to the great beyond and replaced by a growing look of horror and genuine _panic_. District Five had two twelve year olds. District Six had two twelve year olds, the girl in particular wearing an eyepatch. District Seven had twelve year olds! District Eight had twelve year olds, Mercy by now in too much of a shock to notice the little glint in the eye of the girl on stage. On and on it went in this fashion from District Nine right down to District Twelve.

Every single tribute outside of the career pack was twelve years old. Every damn one of them!

"This can't be happening…" Mercy whispered. This wasn't honourable, this was disturbing.

Kadrian leaned back, let out a low whistle… and began to applaud, laughing.

"Best reaping ever," Kadrian remarked, laughing on and on. "Seems we've only got two real opponents to go against Mercy. You know what, challenge accepted, I'm gonna try and beat Chassis' record for shortest games ever."

"Best of luck. I'll always accept a tribute sticking it to that mistake of a victor," Olga said, pouring herself a glass of vodka. "Now, as your competition is so pitiful there is no excuse for losing. I will not tolerate anything but a District Two victory. In fact, I'd be rather annoyed if both if you are not the last ones standing."

"Easy," Kadrian said, smirking wider. "Right Mercy? …Uh, Mercy?"

Mercy wasn't responding. She sat ridgid, staring blankly at the TV screen showing images of the twenty four tributes.

"Huh, she must have gone catatonic from shock," Kadrian noted. "Guess I understand, this is some seriously good luck."

"How is there anything good about this?!" Mercy shrieked, her eyes wide and ghost-like. "They're just tiny kids! Babies! This… this is abnormal!"

"No, this is random odds," Olga calmly remarked, sipping her vodka. "A bit strange, I'll admit, but random regardless. What's not to like about it? You're near certain to win."

"But… but… they're just kids," Mercy whispered, getting pale in the face and a bit green in the gills.

"Who cares? Twelve year olds have died in the arena in most years of past Games," Kadrian replied, already moving back to the dining table. "You volunteered knowing you'd have to kill people. Suck it up."

"He's right, this is weakness. This is not the way of a tribute from Two. Focus, strength and honour is. If you cannot perform your duty then there is nothing that can be done for you," Olga said, firm and cold. "Shape up, or ship out in a casket. That's your only choice."

Olga returned to the dining table to speak with her own tribute. They began to hit things off well enough while Mercy remained rooted to the spot. She seemed like she was about to throw up.

She'd made a terrible mistake.

"Are you… alright…?" Vercingetorix asked, looking just as sick in response to the reaping recap as Mercy did.

Mercy didn't say another word. She silently got up and heading off to her room, quickly and quietly. She didn't respond to Rhyder's call of concern.

Only when she locked herself in her room did she allow herself to start sobbing. The tough image was broken. The image of a powerful warrior was destroyed.

Mercy knew herself well enough to know that she couldn't bring herself to hurt little children. It wasn't the same as older people.

Only when she really thought on why there was any difference did Mercy realise how hypocritical this was and how there was no honour in this at all.

She'd bought it all upon herself.

* * *

The parade did not make Mercy feel any better. What was normally the opening spectacle among spectacles had been twisted into a grim, sordid affair. It was just a bunch of terrified children shoved into sparkly costumes.

Mercy briefly wondered, while anxiously waving to the audience in her gladiator outfit, if it had always been that way and she'd just been too enraptured by the system to notice anything was wrong.

Kadrian loved the parade. The Ones similarly enjoyed the event to the fullest. Mercy was mainly unsettled by the cries of the pair from Three in the chariot behind hers and the whimpers of the Fours behind them and, though it had been very hard to hear, the muttering of the boy from Five about how it may hurt less to just stab himself in the heart with a knife from the kitchen.

That was only the start. The first day of training was where things really became particularly gruesome.

As per every year the head trainer explained the rules, making sure the 'no fighting other tributes' rule was understood by all. After that everybody was free to do as they wanted until lunch time, and that was exactly the problem.

The careers got bored of training very quickly indeed.

While tormenting outliers was never an uncommon thing, careers tended to prioritise training to ensure they maintained their already vast upper hand in combat and other skills. Time was forever of the essence and there was always the chance an outlier to pull off a shock.

This year Kadrian and the Ones – smug Raphael and gorgeous Smooch – saw no need to train beyond the absolute bare minimum. What need was there when they only had three real opponents and a hoard of meat to hack and slash their way through? Egged on by Dragon and Bronze they quickly made a grand show of tormenting the twenty twelve year olds.

Mercy tried her best to focus on practising her archery while her fellow careers went about on their torment of all the meat. It became hard to focus on what she was doing when she heard the crying of the girl from Three, the agonizing sobbing of the boy from Four, the wails of the boy from Seven for his mother and the sounds of the girl from Twelve being laughed at for wetting her pants in sheer terror.

It was impossible to ignore it anymore once the Ones backed the girl from Six into a corner and began to insult her family while Kadrian tried his absolute hardest to get the girl from Eight to shit herself in fear.

He failed to notice the way, when she turned away from him in seeming fear, a look of pure malevolence passed through her eyes. She had plans for the big boy mocking her, oh yes indeed.

"Hey!" Mercy yelled, tossing away the bow and arrow and making her way over towards the other careers. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Having fun," Kadrian replied, turning away from the girl from Eight. "What, you want a turn? Hey, be my guest."

"No, I don't want a turn," Mercy took a deep breath, crossing her arms. "What is this achieving? The kids are already terrified, do you really need to make them feel even worse?"

"We're just asserting our dominance. Plenty of packs do it," Raphael stated, shrugging. "Who cares? They're gonna die anyway."

"If that's the case then, again, what is this achieving? It's shameful, that's what it is," Mercy said, her tone turning into scorn.

"Oh, like you have any right to judge us," Smooch added, sneering. "You volunteered to be here and would've had no issues if they were a bit older."

"I'll admit it, that was true," Mercy replied coolly. "Was. I'm gonna go for the unobtained record… win without killing anybody."

Mercy turned on her heel, heading back to the archery training station. Her rant had given the tiny tributes time to flee and hide away from the rest of the pack. Her words did not sink into her allies however. They simply shrugged and continued to stalk around in search of their younger opposition.

Mercy's heart pounded a mile a moment as she continued firing arrows. What she had just done, was it rebellion? Was it a disgrace to Two? Was it signing her own death warrant?

…Was it wrong she did not care what the answer was to any of those sorts of questions?

* * *

The second day of training was started off much like the first had. Training with a variety of skills, but sticking to archery for the most part. Only now it was a bit harder for Mercy to focus on what she was doing. Not just because of how the pack and many of the kids watched her, but also because of how Olga had given her quite the verbal tongue lashing the night before.

While apparently she was still above Rook, she was on very thin ice with the legend of Two and whether she lived or died her disobedience and disloyalty to all that made her a Two wasn't to be forgotten for many years to come.

Olga hadn't even needed to raise her voice to intimidate Mercy. A calm, cold tone was enough to achieve the same effect. Rhyder had privately assured her that she'd done the right thing, but Mercy had no idea what to think.

Everything she'd known for years was in one constant flux of chaos within her mind.

It was midway through the day of training, right as she'd sent an arrow through the eye of a dummy forty meters away, that Kadrian walked over to deliver her the news.

"The Ones and I talked it over and we came to a unanimous agreement. You're out of the pack," Kadrian said, matter-of-factly.

"Huh, why?" Mercy asked, fumbling with her bow.

"You're just not working out," Kadrian said, shrugging. "Talking against us was a dumb idea and the Ones are frankly offended. The opposition is so pathetic that we do not even need a fourth member, three is plenty. You're on your own."

"…Well fine. I don't need you," Mercy replied, cold as ice. "I don't need anybody!"

With that, Mercy let an arrow fly and skewer into a dummies throat. Kadrian couldn't help but lightly applaud.

"Perhaps not," he conceded. "If I don't win I'd like if you did. Still a win for Two. But if we find you in the arena all bets are off."

"Thanks for the warning," Mercy replied dryly. "Tell the Ones I'd rather not be in a pack with a group of people hounding little kids like wild animals."

"Will do, but you'd be a hypocrite to act like you're much different. If they were eighteen you'd be just the same as us," Kadrian retorted as he walked away.

Mercy did not reply. She didn't want to admit that he was entirely correct. It made her feel sick at herself, knowing just what she would've been capable of – was _still_ capable of – and how she'd have never second guessed it.

It kept her silenced until midway through lunch. She'd kept her head down to eat her soup until the sound of footsteps approaching her had made her look up, expecting the career pack wanting something else. Only, it was not the careers who had approached her.

It was the girl from Six.

"Can I sit with you?" the girl asked. "The other seats are taken."

Mercy knew this wasn't true at all – she could see at least ten free seats dotted around the tables within the cafeteria – but nonetheless gestured for the small girl to sit down.

"Need something?" Mercy asked after a silent minute of the girl eating.

"Why'd you stand up for us?" the girl asked. "Don't careers love treated everybody else like animals? Isn't hurting people who cannot fight back your, like, defining _thing_? It's what Chassis said."

"…I never saw it that way," Mercy replied. "It never seemed that way to me, not when I grew up surrounded by people singing praises to all of this. I guess I just went with it."

"Sounds like brainwashing," the girl remarked, briefly stuffing her face with pasta.

"…I guess so," Mercy said, unsure what else to say. "Is that all you needed?"

"Well, no. See, us kids… we have a big problem. Three big problems," the girl from Six glanced over at the trio of careers. "They're gonna kill us… perhaps you'd like to be our bodyguard?"

"Aren't you scared I could kill you too?" Mercy replied, confused. "I would be… uh… what was your name again?"

"You don't listen to the reaping recaps do you?" the girl said, playfully huffing. "Honda Garret. And really, you're about the least scary person here. You're the only one that told the careers to leave us alone and said you'd win without killing anybody."

Mercy had no good response to this other than to nod dumbly. She tried not to focus on the sounds of disgust that came from the career table when she shook Honda's tiny hand. The idea of a Two allying with a Six was something that went against all she had ever been told.

Mercy found it amazing just how quickly she was no longer caring.

* * *

The rest of the pre-Games days passed by all too quickly. Honda had been all too happy to chatter about how she was the 'best pick pocket in all of Six' and roped her district partner Tank into the fold. He'd hit it off with Timber from Seven, their little gang expanding to be four members strong.

The trio of careers had laughed at Mercy and her 'army of rats'. Olga had been completely disgusted that a Two would do anything to a Six that was not murder and Rhyder… he'd told Mercy to be like him and not play by the expected rules.

"We're all from Two, but we're all different," he had told her on the balcony one night. "I wasn't part of the pack in my Games and neither were my parents. Do it your way because that's the best way for you."

Mercy vowed she would.

The careers got meaner, the kids got more and more terrified, Mercy kept herself popular as a career breaking the common mould, not that she was dumb enough to speak against what she now saw as injustice, and Honda followed her all around like a loyal puppy.

The girl from Eight just watched them all, only speaking when spoken to. She acted cutesy, cuddly and sweet.

All of it was fake…

The careers and Mercy scored tens. The rest of the tributes scored between four and two. The girl from Eight alone only scored a one.

Nobody noticed the brief look of triumph in her eyes when the score was revealed to the nation. Nobody knew the plans Lillian Barrows had in mind.

* * *

The tributes were launched into a snowy forest, a freezing gust of wind billowing through the arena. The cornucopia was coated in snow as it sat in the midst of a clearing of the forest, the snow and trees leading off for miles in all directions. It was horribly cold, even with the thick and woolly tribute outfits.

Mercy readied herself to run in and retrieve the bow and quiver of arrows, only to notice something rather odd. The entire area surrounding the cornucopia was circled by a large wall. It was featureless aside from the number '8' being displayed on it in several places.

Mercy didn't have time to spare it much thought. Amongst the crying, the wailing and the cruel laughter of the careers the gong rang. The mayhem began only seconds later.

The careers, having longer legs, easily reached the weapons before a single twelve year old had grabbed even one knife. Seeing that the kids had no way to escape from the clearing they quickly went to work, slaughter and blood following their every step.

Mercy vomited at the sight, smell and sound of all the death and agony around her. She grabbed up her weapons, supplies and prepared to make a run for it.

That was when she noticed the number had fallen from '8' down to '2'. Six bodies were laying around, crumpled into tiny heaps of blood and gore. As soon as Smooch gutted the boy from Nine with a scythe the number fell to a one. It all clicked in an instant.

"Honda! Tank! Timber! Get ready to run!" Mercy yelled, making a break for the wall.

A loud crack filled the air and the walls began to lower into the snow. Mercy glanced at the source of the noise, recoiling when she saw Kadrian dropping Tank's lifeless body to the ground. The crack had been the sound of him breaking the boy's neck. He gave Mercy a wolfish grin.

Mercy didn't hang around after that. She ran away from the carnage going on, scooping Honda and Timber under each arm as she charged along. Her heart wrenched and her stomach churned as she passed the girl from Eleven crawling pathetically, missing the lower half of her left leg. Helping her was beyond her power.

"Watch out for the log! Jump!" Timber yelled.

"Mind the tree!" Honda exclaimed.

Mercy remained silence, tearing through the snowy forest and listening to the directions she was given. As she panted and wheezed the cannons began to fire as the distant bloodbath came to a close.

Thirteen cannons boomed, all of them to mark the deaths of children who had barely begun to live at all. Mercy only needed to take once glance at what was left of her little alliance and know what she had to do.

Make the ultimate sacrifice to send one of them home. She knew she'd never be welcome back in Two anymore, so what did it matter?

As the freezing afternoon became an ivy sunset the tributes who were still alive scattered around the arena, the worst yet to come for any of them.

Mercy, Honda and Timber fled to the north where a dimly lit winter village lay in wait for them.

The careers wiped the blood off of their weapons, exchanged high-fives and, after sorting through their plentiful supplies, split off solo in separate directions. With so little danger coming from the other tributes they believed numbers were not important like they would be in any other year.

The boy from Three, the girl from Five and the girl from Ten ambled off aimlessly in separate directions, all miraculously unharmed. Lillian quietly followed after the girl from Ten, completely unseen.

Time passed before, with a sigh of profound relief, the boy from Four emerged from his hiding place beneath several blankets inside a crate within the horn of plenty. With nobody anywhere near him he took his time to carefully grab the best supplies remaining, bury the weapons that were too big for him down into the snow and set off towards the south.

The cold only got worse.

* * *

Dawn arrived, a cannon following not far behind. Mercy had gotten herself, Honda and Timber inside the main lodge of the little village. The door had been locked and barricaded, the windows were covered by wardrobes and the trio sat by the barely lit fireplace. It was warm inside, but by no means without problems.

The kids had barely managed to grab anything from the cornucopia – Timber grabbed a pack of crackers while Honda grabbed a knife – while Mercy's supplies were not enough for all three to live on. They knew they could melt snow to drink, but when it came to food they had very little.

This was gonna suck.

"See anything?" Honda asked Mercy, the older girl having peered through the crack between the nearest window and the wardrobe in front of it.

"Nothing yet. Guess that's a good thing," Mercy replied. "Though, really, there are only three tributes we need to worry about."

"I don't know, the girl from Five had a bit of a look to her. You know the type," Honda remarked.

"She's a kid. Kids… they don't have the same 'look' to them as trained killers," Mercy made her way back to the sofa, starting to pace around it. "What do we do, what do we do…"

Time passed with Mercy struggling to make a plan, Honda using some chalk to draw on the walls in hopes of impressing sponsors and Timber trying his best to ignore the hunger that was slowly but surely building up within himself.

"We can't stay in here for long," Timber said after a while. "We're gonna run out of food by tonight."

"If we go outside you two might get hurt," Mercy replied. "I can't risk that."

"Wait, we'll be hurt? What about you?" Honda asked. "If you're so tough… maybe you could hunt something for us? Maybe a rabbit?"

"You know what… I think I will," Mercy agreed, gearing herself up in preparation for her hunt. "You should hide in the attic until I'm back. Lock the door when I leave. If it's me I'll knock six times."

The kids agreed without hesitation, wishing Mercy luck as she exited into the snowy wasteland beyond the lodge. The tough girl tightened her outfit, pulled up her hood and marched off into the woods, hunting for some sort of animal she could eat. A rabbit, a bird, a deer, she was not picky by any means.

Mercy didn't know it, but extreme danger was not far away from her. While the Ones hunted further south in the arena Kadrian had chosen to move towards the north, a casual look about him as he walked along. If anything he seemed bored.

He was also not the extreme danger by any means.

He never came close to finding Mercy just about a mile or so ahead of him. He did, however, come close to the sounds of crying. Like any good hunter he followed them to the source. He smirked widely as he saw the figure sobbing.

The girl from Eight. The tiny body of the girl from Ten lay still beside her, no doubt killed by something earlier in the day. A mutt perhaps? Kadrian didn't think any of the meat had it in them to kill, especially not so early in the games.

"Ready to die?" he asked, sword in hand as he moved closer to Lillian.

Lillian sniffled, tears pouring down her face as she looked up at Kadrian.

A malevolent smirk crossed her face.

"Are you?" she asked, bored.

It happened too fast for Kadrian to react. His foot caught something, a snap echoed and a rock was smashed against his head from a trap hidden amongst the snow. He fell to the ground half-concussed, fighting to try and stand back up. He could barely do a thing before Lillian strutted towards him, shoved a dirty rag into his mouth and knelt beside him.

He'd fallen for the oldest trick in the book.

"Isn't it funny how people assume cute, cuddly things are innocent?" Lillian asked, giggling. "That girl did. You did. The others will too. You really are an idiot Kadrian."

Lillian ceased her giggling and adopted a look of pure, cold calculation. She took a carving knife from within her thick jacket.

"Let's see what you look like on the inside," she said, calm as could be.

Lillian rolled up Kadrian's leggings and began to peel and tear the skin off of his legs. He writhed, screamed and roared in pure, utter agony. Lillian calmly punched him in the throat to shut him up and kept going with her gruesome deed.

The entire process of torture lasted over four hours. The last thing he heard, aside his own screaming, was Lillian remarking that it was funny that he'd tormented all the children and ended up begging for mercy from one of them.

She then stabbed him in the throat.

* * *

Mercy never came across the bloody massacre. She did, however, come across a deer and took it down with one solid arrow between the eyes. She and her tiny allies ate very well tat evening and throughout the third day. It was almost comfortable within the lodge, relaxing and eating deer meat.

Alas, it was hard to relax when the Hunger Games were still ongoing. Besides their own group there were still six others left alive. Two of them Mercy would fight if she had to. The rest… Mercy had no idea what to do.

She did not know the truth of Lillian Barrows.

She also had no idea what had led to Kadrian's early demise. She assumed the girl from Ten had been killed by him or the Ones, but what could've so swiftly ended the life of the brute from Two?

"I just don't get it," Mercy said for the sixth time. "He was so strong, so fearless… how'd this happen?"

"Maybe he froze? Or, you know, fell through a frozen lake?" Honda guessed. "It can't be easy to swim if you're overloaded with weapons right?"

"It's that or a mutt got him," Timber added, shuddering. "I won't miss him."

"Like, same. That guy was a jerk," Honda muttered, crossing her arms. "What about you Mercy? Was he less of a jerk back home?"

"We never spoke outside the academy," Mercy replied, taking a bite out of a slab of deer meat. "He was just a really good student across the board, that's all I ever knew. I can't claim to know him."

The topic was left alone after that. For a while the trio simply relaxed within the lodge, trying to keep warm and find ways to pass the time. Things passed particularly slowly within the warm building while tributes outside the village continued to bare the horrid cold.

The gamemakers decided to speed things along.

One moment the fireplace was lightly lit and pleasantly warm. The next moment there was a spark and then a few dozen more. The fire spread pretty quickly after that.

"Quick! The door!" Mercy yelled, practically tearing away all the objects that had been used to barricade it.

The lodge went up in flames, but thankfully nobody had been inside it at the time. The three tributes ran through the village as the fire spread, easily outpacing the inferno behind them.

It was harder, however, to find a way to evade the pair from One as they ran out from the frosty trees that surrounded the winter village. They had been in the area, the fire attracting them like how honey attracted flies.

"Don't come any closer," Mercy warned them, an arrow notched and the bowstring pulled back. "I'll shoot."

"So much for your vow to not kill a single person in the Games," Smooch remarked, clutching a pair of tomahawk axes.

"Go on then, shoot," Raphael replied, cold enough to match the weather around them. "Do it."

Mercy hesitated for just a moment, time which Smooch used to throw a tomahawk at Timber. She barely missed. Mercy let the arrow fly, purposely letting it pass just by Smooch's head to scare her backwards.

"Run! Now!" Mercy yelled, already yanking another arrow from the quiver. "We'll meet back up to the south!"

Honda and Timber ran for their lives into the blizzard, tripping over a few times along the way, while Mercy remained to confront the pair from One. It would be the fight of her life. One that she didn't feel quite the same aversion for as she did with fighting the other tributes.

Perhaps she was a hypocrite, but she wasn't a sadist. Not like the Ones at least.

Raphael worked to narrow the gap and strike his once-ally with his sword. While unable to fire off an arrow at such a closer distance Mercy was far from outmatched, not when she had always been particularly good at knife fighting. Blade met bigger blade, metal clanging and sparks flying.

Then the tomahawks were thrown.

Smooch had at least twelve of the handheld axes on her at that point, taking care with her aim. It would not do to accidently hit her district partner in the chaos. She aimed hard and threw harder, but the frantic movements going on between the combatants made it impossible to aim effectively, even when she stood rooted to the spot.

Rooted for a minute, all the time needed for the fire to spread towards her and set her luscious hair on fire. Smooch screamed and shouted, running in a panic and crashing into Raphael and Mercy. They all fell down, soon becoming one mangled mess of fists and feet. As the brawl went by a knife entered a throat and a cannon boomed.

Raphael ran off into the woods with his arm bruised and his right thigh bleeding from a painful stab. Mercy ran off to track down her allies, hoping that they had not gotten too far ahead of her. Smooch lay in a crumpled heap amongst the reddening snow, her neck sporting a nasty gash and her lips badly cut.

Mercy wandered for quite some time before, to her deepest delight, she finally found Honda huddling in a ball beneath an old snow covered bridge. The allies big and small embraced tightly as they knelt together under the cracked bridge, just glad to be alive.

"I was so worried," Honda whispered. "I wanted to fight, but I… I… I'm sorry."

"You did the right thing," Mercy assured her. "That fight as vicious. You'd have died. Running away from certain death is nothing to be ashamed of… especially as I told you to."

"Thanks Mercy… so, did you…?" Honda trailed off.

"I did. The girl from One," Mercy replied, shivering from more than just the cold.

Honda didn't reply. She only buried her face deeper against Mercy's shoulder. In one movement Mercy picked up her smaller ally and began to walk away one step at a time through the nasty stow storm.

"Come on then, let's find us a new shelter," Mercy said as they went on their way. "Where did Timber go?"

"We lost each other in the blizzard," Honda replied, her teeth chattering. "He said we should meet at the cornucopia."

"Then that's where we'll go. I think I know where it is," Mercy said, nodding.

Incidentally, Timber never made it to the cornucopia. He'd ambled through the snowy forest, freezing but very much alive, searching for any kind of clue as to where he was.

He found no clues, just a crying girl in the midst of a snowy grove.

Lillian.

His compassion was his doom. One moment he approached her with intent to help. The next moment he was on the ground with a pounding headache and his shirt was being torn off of him.

A cannon fired an hour later.

* * *

Luck seemed to be on Mercy's side, at least for a short while. The north winter village was ablaze, but it turned out that a southern one also existed and was in good shape. It made for a perfect place to spend the third night and much of the frigid fourth day in the arena.

The boy from Four had been hiding here since nightfall on day one and was fine to let the girls into the main lodge. He wasn't about to turn away Mercy, not when she was a potential bodyguard for him.

"Help yourselves," the boy, Admiral, said as he gestured to a box of fancy chocolates. "I think somebody out there must like me a lot, though I can't eat them all without making myself sick."

Honda was quick to take Admiral on his offer and stuff her face with chocolate. Mercy was a bit more polite and dignified with her own eating of the chocolate, but she could not blame her little ally for her eagerness. Capitol chocolate was amazing.

As the afternoon turned into the evening the three sat by the fire, trying to keep warm and hoping that it would not end up setting the place on fire as it had done to the village in the north.

"So, how many are left now?" Admiral asked. "I always spent the night in the basement and didn't see the anthems."

"Not many of us. Maybe… uh, Seven? Eight?" Honda guessed.

"You were right the first time, it's seven of us left," Mercy said, biting on a chicken leg she'd been sponsored. "Us three, Raphael, the boy from Three, the girl from Five and the girl from Eight. They could be anywhere."

"Maybe they'll freeze and we won't have to anything we'll… regret," Admiral glanced away, sickened.

Mercy couldn't deny that she liked the idea of the rest just freezing to death. Well, no, perhaps she had not _liked_ it exactly, but it seemed a lot less painful and cruel than smashing somebody's brains with a mace or gutting somebody with a sharp scythe.

Sure enough freezing to death exactly what happened to the boy from Three after darkness descended within the arena for the latest horrible night. It was not, however, what became of the girl from Five. She fell victim to Raphael's sword piercing through her chest and out through her back.

All the while Lillian followed Raphael around from a safe distance, waiting for the right moment to make her move.

* * *

The fifth day was eerily quiet for the most part, the last five tributes not doing much overall. The three at the village walked around, trying to keep themselves warm by keeping themselves moving, while Raphael slowly hunted around with no idea Lillian was stalking him, getting closer to him with every passing hour.

It all kicked off just as the last light of day faded away.

One moment Mercy, Honda and Admiral had been huddling within their own respective blanket to try and bare the cold that had leaked into the cabin. The next moment a scream pierced the air from the darkness outside.

"HELP! HELP ME! SOMEBODY HELP!"

Mercy was on her feet in an instant, bow and arrow ready to go. She approached the door, taking a deep breath. This was it, the last battle against Raphael. After he was taken care of… she'd no longer be needed.

She was ok with that.

"I'll be back soon," Mercy said, unsure if she was even telling the truth or not. "Wait here."

"Be safe," Honda called after her. "Try not to die."

Mercy responded with a grim nod as she headed off towards the direction the screaming had come from.

It wasn't long before she stood at the edge of a forest grove. In the centre of the grove was Lillian, kneeling and cowering. At the far side of the grove stood Raphael, sword in hand.

Mercy didn't notice the confused look he'd briefly had in his eyes before he'd noticed she was there. She only saw a brute about to butcher a scared child.

A brute she may have been in another timeline if things had been just a bit different.

Mercy let the arrow fly, hitting Raphael right in the eye. He died before he even realised he should be feeling agony. The cannon boomed and he slumped over in a crumpled heap. Lillian looked up, sniffling. She watched as Mercy carefully made her way closer towards her.

A distant explosion filled the night, mostly covered by the blizzard.

"Are you… my friend…?" Lillian whispered, hiccupping on her own tears.

"Yes, I'm your friend," Mercy whispered, letting her weapons fall from her grasp. They'd not be needed anymore. "It's all gonna be over soon. He was the last one."

"He was?" Lillian asked, sobbing.

"He was," Mercy confirmed, getting closer to Lillian. "He can't hurt you now."

A cannon fired. Mercy whirled around to glanced back towards the village that lay beyond several trees. Only this change of her position had spared her from a rock trap smashing against her head.

It did not, however, prevent Lillian from leaping up and using a large pebble to bash Mercy's head. Not anywhere as badly as the trap would have, but enough to send the older girl to the ground and onto her back, reeling in pain.

Mercy gazed up, her vision blurring. Alas, it wasn't blurry enough to stop her from seeing the look of pure cruelty and malicious glee that filled Lillian's eyes.

The careers had never once been the biggest problem and only now did Mercy see the truth.

"Thanks for taking out the Ones. I couldn't have done it without your help," Lillian said, taking out a carving knife coated in dried blood. "Or maybe I could've. That boy who came with you screamed pretty loud. He was pathetic."

"W-what… you did… all of that?" Mercy sounded like she wanted to scream, only to find herself hardly able to speak. "Why… would you… just a kid…"

"It was funny," Lillian said, shrugging. "Once you're dead, it'll be just the little one from Six, or four. Not sure who that other cannon was for, but you're dead either way. Thanks again. Ok, time to die."

Mercy kicked her feet out at Lillian, trying to scramble back in the snow away from the little monster. Lillian was punted backwards, but quickly rose again with her scowl deepening.

"Ok, now I'm annoyed," she said.

Mercy yelled and cried out as she was kicked twice in the head. It was hard for her to make out Lillian's expression anymore. She felt this wasn't really such a bad thing.

"Get away from my friend!" a voice yelled from just beyond the clearing.

Lillian hardly had any chance to react before Honda, somewhat burnt from just barely escaping the gas explosion within the lodge, tackled her to the ground. In moments the two young girls were screaming, shouting, clawing and grabbing for an advantage over each other.

The nation could only watch on as the tiny pair tried to kill each other, neither quite getting the upper hand over the other, while Mercy continued to lay in pain. During the fight Lillian was knocked back upon her, driving a knife into her leg. The little monster merely giggled before diving back into the duel against Honda.

Mercy felt herself starting to fade out, whether from life or consciousness, as Lillian finally drove her knife into Honda's chest. Right as Honda was tossed down beside her Mercy closed her hand around something metallic.

"Whoa… what a workout… you girls didn't make it easy. Not appreciated," Lillian muttered, gasping for air. "I'm not gonna make this one slow. Think you can hold on longer than that meathead Kadrian did?"

"Can… you…?" Mercy asked, wheezing.

Lillian paused for ranting to turn around. She only had an instant to react with terror before Mercy fired off a final arrow, the point skewering right through her left eye and piercing her brain in the same moment. The cannon boomed as Lillian crumpled to the ground, a look of everlasting horror etched onto her young face.

Mercy lay in pain, her head throbbing and her leg bleeding freely. As she stared up at the falling snow a small hand took hold of her own. Weakly, she turned to look at Honda. The girl wasn't far off dying either.

"We… won…" Honda choked out. "Just us… left…"

"You were… brave…" Mercy felt like she was going to pass out at any second. "You should… win…"

"You were… awesome… best career ever," Honda shivered, tears falling down her face. "…Win…"

"No… reason… to," Mercy whispered. "Honda… win…"

It became too hard for the allies to say a word after that. They remained holding each other's hand, just watching the snow fall from the sky above. Both soon passed out from pain and blood loss.

A cannon eventually fired.

It wasn't Mercy's.

* * *

Mercy's victory spawned quite a few reactions. Every victor who ever lived had their fans and their haters, whether they were as noble as Mizar and Crown or as despicable as Bronze or Logger, but Mercy really split the fanbase and the districts in a lot of different sides.

Within the Capitol she was rather popular with the citizens for the most part, though perhaps not those who had bet on other tributes. It was those in power that really didn't like her. The idea of tributes from Two questioning the system was a dangerous one to be stamped out. Vercingetorix and Rhyder were enough to try and control, a third was a problem. Snow was confident he could keep any sort of rebellion stamped out.

Sure enough, threatening to kill a few twelve year olds in each district if Mercy stepped a toe out of a line did the trick. The thing that made the president's threats work was how he would follow up on them if he had to. Such was the nature of a man lacking any particular amount of morals.

Those who lost their children to the Hunger Games were inconsolable per the norm, but outside of vengeful District One it was hard to hate Mercy, exactly. She wasn't the one who had killed the little children, outside of the monster from Eight of course. The other careers had done the vast majority of that, the rest being left to Lillian or the Gamemakers. Mercy's hands weren't stained with blood the way most career tributes' were.

The outliers even seemed to respect Mercy, at least to some degree. It was still hard to ignore how this side had only been bought out in response to the reaping and murder of so many little children.

The most mixed response of all came from within her own district. Her family loved her, Kadrian's family were mostly heartbroken their son had failed to make it home and the warmongering district were either disappointed the weakest of them all had won… or, in the eyes of some, happy that the strongest among them won without even needing to use the bulk of her strength at all.

Within the most mixed district there was one group that had the most mixed opinions of them all. Mercy's fellow victors. None of them shared quite the exact same opinion.

Baron was fine with her winning. He was especially happy that she had realised how wrong the system was, feeling it was one step among many towards repairing the damage to Two he'd accidentally started over forty years ago.

Runa embraced the company of another woman who came whom victorious and, like herself, hated the experience. Mercy may have volunteered, but Rina felt it did not matter how a story begun, moreso how it _ended_. She and Mercy shared much in common, starting their own bond that would last for the rest of Runa's life.

Olga was disgusted by Mercy, even more than she was with Rook. That boy had turned his back on the pack but, as much as she detested him, at least conceded that he fought like a warrior and showed no fear. Mercy had outright refused to fight and called the system Olga dedicated her life to 'flawed' and 'cruel'. She hated Mercy with every fibre of her being. She was no victor, especially not for working with a tribute from Six.

Rook liked Mercy. That said, all the stuff such as her avoidance of fighting, caring for the little ones, questioning the system and so forth had nothing to do with it. He was just inclined to respect anybody who managed to piss Olga off just as badly, if not worse, than he did.

Boulder, as he did with most things, kept a neutral perspective. He had a very 'self-district mindset' and tended to only consider how things effected Two. As it stood Mercy's win meant more food and other such goods throughout his home, so he felt it'd be foolish to complain over her win. She lived, the rest didn't, so that was the end of it. No sense dwelling in the past.

Vercingetorix was just glad that he had somebody to talk to who truly shared his pain. Somebody who hated what they would've been in a 'normal year' and how haunted they felt by memories of the arena and thoughts of what 'could've been yet never was'. The pair vented to each other quite often.

Dragon thought Mercy was pretty lame all things considered. She set herself a no killing challenge and then blew it. As far as the challenge runner was concerned she was a phony, a big fat phony. Still, he would admit after a few drinks that her point blank arrow sent at Lillian was pretty cool.

Rhyder gave Mercy a hug and told her how proud he was of her for breaking the mould. Aside the unbeatable top spots that his parents shared, she was officially his favourite victor and somebody he was glad to call a friend.

Mercy herself had no idea what to think. Was she a terrible person who just got a rare chance to be a good guy? A good person who had gone down an awful path she barely got away from? A combination of the two? All she knew as that she wished she'd been able to save just one of those little kids.

She missed Honda.

She wanted a chance to make up for failing at her planned goal and save other children whom, like Honda, lacked any way to really fight back. Even if Snow would forever and always get in the way of her doing anything of the sort she wanted to try.

* * *

Years later after the Third Quell, when rebellion, war and carnage tore throughout Panem and especially within Two, Mercy readied herself with a bloodied sword in hand. A brutal fight a massive pack of experimental reaper mutts loomed near.

She was ready for it.

Anything to save all those little orphans.

She charged.

* * *

"It's bad enough when just one twelve year old is in the arena. Having twenty in there? That's just…" Katniss closed her eyes, shuddering. "I don't want to think about it."

"Me neither," Peeta agreed. "Shall we go to the next one down the street?"

"Yeah, let's do that," Katniss agreed.

The couple walked onwards, soon coming to the next imprinted face of many. A girl stared back at them, one with shoulder length hair, a somewhat blank and direct stare and a somewhat shy, uneasy looking half-smile. Katniss and Peeta lowered their heads, a sense of sadness overcoming them at the sight of one of their fallen friends.

"Rest well Wiress," Peeta said, quietly.

"I'm sure you were one hell of a victor back in your day," Katniss said, similarly subdued.

* * *

It's always fun to write the tales of the careers, especially those that break the mould. Like Platinum Mercy was not ready for the arena, though unlike Platinum it took a bit more of a 'specific' sort of Games to bring out her better side. The question remains, was she a bad person who went good, or a good person who avoided becoming twisted? Either way, hope you liked the tale that unfolded and the rather irregular reaping therein. Next up is another canon and a favourite of mine, Wiress! Expect her chapter sooner rather than later. Her special format ought to make her chapter easy to write. A real page turner, wink wink.

* * *

 **Stats**

 **District 1:** Peridot Gaudy (8th Games), Crystal McCree (14th Games), Bronze Marley (19th Games), Crown Martins (24th Games), Dollar Dettwieller (32nd Games), Mascara Court (41st Games), Platinum Twist (44th Games)

 **District 2:** Baron Overwhill (4th Games), Runa Peace (7th Games), Olga Machete (10th Games), Rook Valiant (17th Games), Boulder Atherston (20th Games), Vercingetorix Carnby (25th Games), Dragon Batofel (27th Games), Rhyder Overwhill (39th Games), Mercy Gregor (46th Games)

 **District 3:** Honorius Perthshire (5th Games), Pi Orbit (22nd Games), Beetee Latier (37th Games)

 **District 4:** Museida Selkirk (3rd Games), Mags Flanagan (11th Games), Tide Luther (23rd Games), Librae Ogilvy (35th Games)

 **District 5:** Shunt Gaspar (12th Games), Isobel Sparks (18th Games), Crimson Flanders (29th Games), Porter Tripp (38th Games)

 **District 6:** Chassis Macalister (31st Games)

 **District 7:** Pliny Aransio (2nd Games), Fir Buzz (9th Games), Jack Tylos (21st Games), Snag Nakamura (34th Games)

 **District 8:** Woof Casino (16th Games), Paige Murphy (30th Games), Spool Nylon (42nd Games)

 **District 9:** Mizar Aldjoy (1st Games), Gwenith Rosebud (13th Games), Teff Withers (28th Games), Laurel Flamsteel (36th Games), Tabbock Summers (43rd Games)

 **District 10:** Stallion March (26th Games), Lammy Phyronix (40th Games)

 **District 11:** Bear Redfoot (15th Games), Seeder Howell (33rd Games), Chaff Mitchell (45th Games)

 **District 12:** Duke Saint-Rose (6th Games)


	48. Wiress Plummer

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Hunger Games. They belong to Suzanne Collins.

 **Note:** Ah, Wiress, such an interesting character. What drove her mad? Was she quite so mad all the time before the quell as she was when she died during it? I find her to be somebody with plenty of potential and ways to be interpreted. As it stands, I feel she also is a fine victor for me to add in a new alternate format I've been wanting to use for a while now. Read on and hopefully enjoy the tale of the Nuts to Beetee's Volts!

* * *

"I just think, sometimes… if I'd paid more attention then maybe she could have been saved too," Katniss said, a hand over her face. "Just… if I heard the careers closing it then Gloss would've had no chance to…"

"I know," Peeta gently squeezed Katniss' hand. "I know. I feel like that sometimes. I mean, remember Lacey? The girl who lit the fire at night in our first Games? Sometimes I wonder if there was some way I could have warned her of the careers before it was too late. …I try not to dwell, it drives me mad."

"I think we're all a bit mad on the inside," Katniss said, wistful. "Wiress was too by that logic. But you know what else she was on the inside?"

"A genius?" Peeta guessed.

"Exactly," Katniss nodded. "A genius."

A sudden gust of wind blew a slightly crumpled page of a magazine towards the pair. Both Katniss and Peeta eyed the front cover of an old issue of Games Galore with disdain.

"Certainly smarter than whoever wrote for that rubbish magazine," Katniss muttered, rolling her eyes.

"Yeah, I... can't argue that," Peeta conceded.

* * *

 **47th Annual Hunger Games**

 **Name:** Wiress Plummer

 **Gender:** Female

 **District:** 3

 **Age:** 16

 **Kills:** 6

* * *

 **GAMES GALORE, ISSUE 559 (47** **TH** **HUNGER GAMES SPECIAL!)**

* * *

 **TOP 10 MOMENTS OF THE 47** **TH** **HUNGER GAMES!**

 _By Flavio Heartson_

Robotic transformers in disguise. An out of control lightning storm. An arena wide shortage of hot cocoa? It was war! The Forty Seventh Hunger Games will go down for decades, maybe centuries, as one of the most exciting Games we've ever had. Even when hundreds more Games have been and gone, who could ever forget such a grand spectacle as this? Not this reporter!

The Games lasted a total of fifteen days and so much happened within that time. So much indeed that it's hard to pick out a definitive top ten. Nonetheless, after much painstaking and pleasurable re-watching of the action I, Flavio Heartson, have come up with a list that I believe few would argue is the absolute correct choice and order of the ten best moments.

Of course, it'd be remiss to not take a moment to bring up the honourable mention. Who could forget the scandal of the boys from Seven and Nine being caught in bed with each other in the training centre? Not I and certainly not those who knew them back in their homes! What a way to remember them both, am I right?

 **#10: The Atomic Flush**

Who could have a mentor popular enough for them to send them a hand grenade? The boy from Two certainly did! Ever since the let down of the Thirty Fourth Hunger Games it's been something of a rule to avoid having explosives in the arena, but it seemed that just one grenade was allowable. It turned out to be all the boy from Two needed to 'flush' the girl from Twelve from her hiding place.

Out came the pin. Up went the grenade through the open window above the stall's door. Down it went into the toilet behind the girl from Twelve. BOOM! The grenade exploded, the cannon fired and we all had a good laugh with the boy from Two! Too bad District Twelve didn't see the funny side!

 **#9: Lighting strikes twice**

Most experts would agree that lightning doesn't tend to hit the same place twice, but the Gamemakers play by their own special rules. The Career pack seemed to a little too comfy for their liking, having kept hold of a lot more supplies than they would normally be able to retain. One lightning strike scattered a few crates and destroyed minor scraps, enough so for the boy from One to call it 'no big deal'.

Big mistake!

A second strike came down, as if to firmly scold him for what he said, and blew up the rest of the supplies after that. Whoa! While the careers recovered enough to keep themselves going without a huge amount of problems, they sure didn't let the boy from One forget his mistake! That's one throat slitting to remember!

 **#8: The Cornucopia Bloodbath**

Always a moment for any Hunger Games fan to enjoy, or perhaps a massive series of moments? Either way, this year's bloodbath was one of the best we've had in recent years. I mean, let me count the ways!

The pair from Five trying to get the jump on the girl from One who was launched between them, only to have their eyes torn out. They sure didn't 'see' that one coming did they?

The little girl from Ten trying to copy what the boy from Four of last year's Games did and hide within the cornucopia to wait out the fighting and grab what she could when nobody remained. Little did the foolish girl know that this year's boy from Four had a keen nose for sniffing out things that shouldn't be there and found her in short order. Her family must feel pretty embarrassed that she got found after only a minute of hiding!

There was plenty of hack and slash fun going on all around the clearing within the massive dam, but the part most people remember is when the boy from One tried to prevent Wiress making off with a large duffel bag of goodies. He had his spear ready, but he himself was not ready for Wiress to slide right between his legs and run off behind him… after, of course, punching him right in the crotch. Ouch!

Readers, I can't wait for how next year's bloodbath will try and top this one!

 **#7: The Feast**

Held in the darkest basement of the dam, it was lights out for the living and the dead tributes alike! Those with night vision goggles had the upper hand while those without were either in trouble or too cowardly too show up. That's not what we like seeing in a tribute!

It ended up only being a small feast, with just the pair from Eight and the girl from One showing up in time to battle for the soup on offer. The girl from Eight lost her head (literally!) and the boy from Eight ran off with wounded pride, and a wounded arm for good measure, while the girl from One enjoyed soup that was simply to die for.

Those tricky gamemakers, offering up a poisoned soup! You just can't assume anything in the Hunger Games, not even that a feast will contain helpful items!

 **#6: Beaver Mutts**

It wouldn't be a dam without beavers and, lucky for us, the gamemakers thought ahead and created a surplus of them to keep the tributes on their toes… unless the beavers bit them off first! They sure did that to the boy from Four! Not enough to kill him, only make running a challenge.

Sometimes a mutt just needs to give our tributes a good scare, not cause any fatalities. I for one hope to see more of these beavers in future Games. I think we can rest assured that we certainly will!

 **#5: Two is company, and perhaps a crowd?**

Face it, we all loved seeing the pair from Two battle side by side through the dangerous dam. When their allies from One bit the big one and the boy from Four was left abandoned at the far side of the arena it was just them against the world. The bond they shared was true and pure, certainly a far cry from Mercy and the boy from Two last year!

The pair had a series of moments together, but we can all agree the moment they shared a kiss had us all on the edge of our seats and looking on it wonder.

Of course, what Wiress did to them had us so much more impressed!

 **#4: The Electric Puzzle**

A locked door. Ten rows of tiles to the deactivation switch. One way across. Twenty thousand volts for a wrong move.

No problem for Wiress! She overcame the gamemaker's favourite trap of the year and made it look so easy! Apparently the head gamemaker was a teensy bit sulky that the trap he expected to score at least two kills ended up being outwitted by the girl we once assumed was slow in the mind.

He assures he has something better in mind next year, so keep an eye out folks!

 **#3: The fire**

Comedy value can really hit home with the audience and statistics say it certainly made all of you lovely people laugh into your popcorn. I can't judge, I'm no different! The boy from Three was doing so well to evade the flames that the gamemakers had triggered after his three days of not doing particularly much.

Then he grabbed the oxygen canister and gas mask.

Maybe it was just nerves clouding his judgement or, more likely if you ask me, the boy was particularly dumb to begin with… but what sensible person uses an oxygen canister when fire is all over the place? A dumb one. And, what happened to the canister and its user? Say it with me now! KABOOM!

 **#2: The Storm Peaks**

Lightning and rain everywhere. Parts of the dam being flooded or destroyed outright. Tributes running bravely with determination and screams of amazement of what the benevolent Capitol can do. Frankly I'd want you committed somewhere if you didn't find the whole event on day twelve to be the stuff of legends!

 **#1: Wiress takes over the dam**

While technically the Games are only truly won when the final cannon booms and the trumpets ring out, many agree that the Games were won at the final six this year. Between the burly pair from Two, the shrewd girl from Three, the boy from Four who had quickly adapted to toeless walking and the darkhorse boy from Eight… who would have ever expected that slow speaking, distant Wiress would be the one to take home the victor's crown?

Who, indeed, foresaw her finding the main control room and fiddling around with the wires within. I cannot claim to understand any of it, but Wiress obviously knew what she was doing there. One flicker of inspiration in those somewhat vacant eyes of hers was all it took for her to get started and soon gain full control of everything in the dam. The traps, the mechanisms, the doors, everything!

Wiress claimed she had no idea what she was doing, she just wanted to 'see what the buttons did', but we all know this is one cutthroat killer!

Will next year's victor be any better than Wiress? Impossible to say right now, but we can all agree this year gave us a fantastic Hunger Games!

* * *

 **INTERVIEW WITH DAME OF THE DAM!**

 _By Silky Romandrii_

When it comes to District Three, it seems that all of their victors are smart. Or perhaps 'bonkers' would be the word for it? They sure have brainpower, but they no doubt have some occasionally goofy ways of showing it off, and their latest victor is no exception whatsoever to this trend.

We all know Honorius, the ever witty victor of the Fifth Hunger Games, has a bit of a history of making cheeky banter. Imagine if a normal district citizen made a cheeky remark about the Head of Citizen Welfare's mother! They'd be in a sticky situation for sure! Honorius makes no apologies and, in his own words, claims to tell no lies.

Beetee is a genius, one of the smartest men we've ever gotten the pleasure to meet. Who can forgot all his technological advancements he's created for the Capitol and all the unsolvable questions he keeps answering month after month? But smart as he is, even he is known for inventing some rather strange things and making kooky suggestions. A toaster that butters its own bread so we don't have to? Laying out a welfare plan for the 'poor' within the districts? How very silly!

Even Pi, the cry baby we lost after the shame of failing to bring home any victors in her time as a mentor became too much for her, was a bit of a crazy sort as well. Just how many times did she get arrested for public meltdowns, again? Too many to keep track of if you ask me!

As for Wiress, she was a bit loopy from the moment she arrived in our grand city. Staring vacantly, not always talking even when spoken to, a slow sort of speech pattern… something was up, but we never thought it would be the early signs of a victor in the making! Expert doctors only took half a minute to conclude she simply has high-level autism, a case that doesn't remotely hinder her brilliant they say, but if you ask me I think it's just the madness a victor from Three is seemingly required to have!

I was lucky enough to be in attendance of the after-party of this year's Games within our beloved President's mansion. The food was grand, the music was divine and the wine was easily accessible (wink, wink!). Whispers abounded of a few Capitol children mysterious going missing over the past two years _(page 40)_ but the only whispers that interested me that night were those of Wiress noting that the chocolate was a little sweet for her tastes. I narrowed the gap right away, ready to ask her some burning questions!

 **Silky Romandrii:** **Let's start with the important stuff. Congratulations on your victory Wiress!**

 **Wiress Plummer:** Oh, um… thanks… it was, um, really crazy…

 **SR:** **You or the Games? Just kidding! Anyway, how are you feeling? Fifteen days in the arena, seven days spent recovering and now you're here in this grand party. What's that like?**

 **WP:** I'm not… sure. Fast, loud… lots of noise… quite a lot of worries… feeling sick… um…

 **SR: Well speaking of feeling sick, apparently a relative of a tribute from the Eleventh Games was in the arena and she was sick when he died. Apparently you got along with the Girl from Five in training; what was it like seeing her being eliminated?**

 **WP:** She died alone… in so much pain… I, um, cried for her… it was cruel and-.

 **SR: Oh you Threes, always saying such silly things. So, now that you've won the Games what comes next for you when you're back home?**

 **WP:** I thought we were, um… talking about Arendellian II…

 **SR: What happens when you get home? Work with me here Wiress!**

 **WP:** …I'll read a book about, um… engineering? Electronics? Maybe drink, um… uh… some tea? Lavender tea… maybe?

 **SR: Lovely, lovely. But speaking of electronics, that dam you were in! Whoa! The other five didn't stand a chance with you at the control panel; what was it like 'playing God' in that arena?**

 **WP:** I just wanted to… to… um… to know what… the buttons did…

 **SR: Ok, but between us you just wanted to fry them with electricity, bring the transformer to live to tear them apart with and send the boy from Eight into the turbine, right?**

 **WP:** No! No, never! I never… I'm not… evil!

 **SR: But you are very popular. That finale is easily one of the best of all Forty Seven finished Hunger Games, and even before you unleashed hell on the other tributes you sure showed the boy from Ten who was boss! That tribute stood no chance against you; you really bled him dry!**

 **WP:** It was dark, so… dark… got scared, thought he… um… was a mutt… reacted…

 **SR: Don't worry Wiress, the Capitol loves vicious tributes. You'll fit right in with Olga, Bronze, Dragon and Tabbock.**

 **WP:** No! No! Beetee, help! Need… help… can't think…!

That was all the time I had before Beetee arrived to take Wiress away, claiming that some fans of hers were wanting autographs. I, of course, tried to follow them like how a mutt follows an outlier around, but it seemed Beetee had called in a favour from Dragon. I couldn't get passed that delicious hunk of a man. Not to worry though, he was game for an interview of his own and you'll be seeing the results of it in the next issue!

* * *

 **ARENA TOURS AVAILABLE! VISIT THE MUST SEE SIGHTS!**

 _By Hajax Marble_

Can't wait for next year's Hunger Games? Craving something to quench your thirst for more Hunger Games mania? Questioning your reason to live without any tribute on tribute combat being broadcast live? The lack of any stabbing poisoning your life? Well not to worry, _Capitol Vacations_ has got you covered!

Got a few thousand Caps laying around? Got nothing to do for a month? Then why not book an ever so grand and luxurious tour to the arena of the Forty Seventh Hunger Games that you'll never forget? Witness all the memorable sights of the battles, gaze in awe at the dried blood in the spots tributes were eliminated, take part in some re-enactments of the best parts of the Games and do it all while living like kings!

With the weather now set to a much more hospitable endless summer you'll find yourself with no shortage of what to do. At the grand rocky banks over by the sides of the dam now sits the finest resort money could pay for the construction of! Casinos, arcades, eight star restaurants, magnificent pools and a trio of cinemas make it somewhere anybody on Panem would want to be. Will you be among those who get to experience the high life within? We hope to see you there so you can tell us yourself that you're somebody who said yes!

Play hover ball around the shimmering silver cornucopia with a once per month guest appearance by legendary hover ball pro Teff Withers of the 28th Hunger Games! Recordings of all the best moments will be playing on loop and everybody is more than welcome to try their hand with the weapons (rubber only, safety first!) and re-enact the bloodbath. Ever wanted to be the girl from One as she broke the arms and legs of the girl from Six before sinking a dagger into her chest? It's our pride and joy to be able to say 'wish granted'!

If that's too tame for you then why not head to the east of the dam where the robot transformers were in disguise… before they came to life, that is! Think you can do a better job of dodging their gunfire than the boy from Eleven did? You probably can, but feel free to prove it against the nerf darts the transformers have been equipped with.

The main event of the tour will surely be getting the chance to be the Dame of the Dam in your own special way! Man the controls, activate the traps and unleash chaos to your heart's content! The most lifelike of dummies (and a few Avoxes) have been readied for you to test out the traps on, whether it's electric generators, turbines, floors collapsing or much more besides! Don't just explore the dam, control the dam! Just try not to slip over, sometimes a puddle might drip down from above; all part of the experience being authentic!

Such an amazing vacation could easily be in your grasp. The odds of having a wonderful time you'll fondly remember for the rest of your life are ever in your favour! All it'll cost is ten thousand caps a person.

* * *

 **A DAY IN THE LIFE OF A GAMEMAKER: ASSISTANT GAMEMAKER DOMITIA TELLS ALL!**

 _By Xanther L'Pronx_

It's not easy working as part of the team behind a Hunger Games! The dream job of many requires intense creativity, strong self-discipline, a great attention span and the ability to work as part of a team towards near impossible deadlines. But for Domita Empire it's all just part of the job she loves doing. But what goes into being a Gamemaker? Lucky for us Domita was willing to show me around the control room of the Forty Seventh Hunger Games and answer that exact question.

She first took me towards her assigned seat in the control room, calling her right to sit there as the absolute honour. Second, perhaps, to being a tribute that is! From her control panel Domita has access to all kinds of the latest touchscreen holo tech Caps can buy. At the command of our newest Head Gamemaker, the ever handsome Jasprous Bellona, Domita can perform one of several functions: adjust the time of day or night in the arena, call in all sorts of weather effects from gusts of wind to lightning bolts, strengthen the flow of water below the damn and even spawn the odd beaver mutt or fifty! Don't all of those touchscreen buttons sound tempting? I know they sure do! Remember the lightning sent at the career pack's supply pile? That was the work of Domitia!

It's not all about sitting down and pressing touchscreen controls however! Far from it! Sometimes the job takes a keen amount of observation and working out what the most effective action to take at any given moment is. I was led over towards the hologram map of the arena, the very thing that keep a constant track of all twenty four tributes at any given moment thanks to their trackers and confirms their exact moment of death right down to the nanosecond. Whoa! Such a map takes a lot of power to keep activated and Domitia is one of several who ensure all the power required is constantly being pumped into the main reactor of the control room. It's a true team effort!

But all the arena functions and the hologram map would be nothing without the crown jewel of the control room. The mutt launcher. All it takes is loading in one mutation brewed up by the Capitol labs and then hitting the button. Whoosh! Off it goes to the arena and to join in the fun the tributes are having! Domitia gets the luxury of being able to slam that red launch button at least three times a day in the latter half of any good Hunger Games.

Alas, I had to leave soon after that. I was only allocated a thirty minute visit and there were secret plans being drawn up for next year's Games. I heard the word fire, I can assure it, so expect something hot and flammable next time dear readers!

* * *

 **VICTOR NEWS: WHAT ARE THEY UP TO?**

 _By Kantropis Jump_

It's been another month of life going by since our last issue and we've all made new memories and tried new things in that time. Or done more of the same, that's fine as well. Naturally, saying 'we've all done stuff' means everybody, and our beloved victors fall under everybody. I've been keeping my eyes peeled, my binoculars at the ready and my camera ready to go at any given moment in my search for the most interesting victor news. This month I've got ten brand new victor stories ready to go; you simply won't believe what you're reading!

To start with we have a victor whose life is in a whirlwind of events! Our most unlikely of victors, **Snag Nakamura (34** **th** **Games)** , married his sweetheart **Paisley Wendell** just shy of half a year ago and already it seems the lovely couple are expecting their first offspring. It's unknown yet if it's a boy or girl or if it's one baby or several, but it's certain that Snag and his wife are both overjoyed at this turn of events! Could one of those future kids be a victor one day? It all comes down to chance at a reaping, but let's file it under P for Possible.

It's not just weddings and families going on, but break-ups as well! **Bronze Marley** **(19** **th** **Games)** , forever the kind to love 'em and leave 'em, just broke up with his twentieth lover of the year. He cited 'things just happen'. She accused him of rape. Bronze, for his part, was ever so offended and claimed he was all about fun and games, nothing more. Looks like another citizen within One filling up the jails for backtalk against our favourite cheeky victor! Bronze bounced back fast, already seen at a fancy night club with another girl. Her name isn't known yet, but details will surely become apparent soon!

That's not all the romantic talk going on in this issue, far from it dear readers! Thanks to some eagle eyed viewers taking photos at just the right moment we caught **Tag Nylon** **(42** **nd** **Games)** and **Lammy Phyronix** **(40** **th** **Games)** leaving a photo booth at Snow Land Amusement Park – around day ten of the Games – with their faces red and their clothes just a little bit ruffled. It seems, readers of mine, that inter-district romance is in the air! Both neglected to comment when flocked by our top reporter, save for Lammy squealing and hiding her face and Tag telling us to buzz off. Rest assured readers, we shan't buzz off quite so easily!

It's not just love this issue folks, but plenty of hatred as well! Hardly two days ago during a routine visit to the Capitol we saw **Rook Valiant** **(17** **th** **Games)** trying to get a can of beer from one of our finest vending machines to enjoy on the lovely summer afternoon. The thing is, whoever stocked the vending machine did a fairly shoddy job of it; the beer can became trapped! Rook declared his hatred for the vending machine, following with numerous punches and kicks. He's not lost his touch with age folks! If not for some local citizens flocking over Rook would've been crushed by the falling vending machine; phew, what a close call! Rook claimed he hated having a crowd all around him for all of two hours, but we know how he really feels!

A new duo are hitting the streets of the Capitol! **Crown Martins** **(24** **th** **Games)** and **Harp Victory** **(lover of tragically deceased Crystal, 14** **th** **Games)** have expanded from the already popular branch of family run candy stores the former inherited and have opened their own night club within the Capitol. Candy, soup, steak, particularly funky drinks… if you want it the stuff is probably there! Ever since Crystal's passing the pair have been sticking together like glue, Harp leaving Crystal's empty home and moving across the street with the motormouth of One. Crown claims he'd been wanting to expand the reach of his business for a while now and never really had the means for it until Harp pooled her own fortune with his. When addressing rumours of the pair having a secret bond of their own, Crown assured us that 'I get the appeal of women about as much as Harp gets the appeal of men. We have other interests; we're just besties'. Whether this is true remains to be seen!

 **Crimson Flanders** **(29** **th** **Games)** was caught in quite the compromising position in a bakery she's been known to frequent. Can you say 'foursome interrupted'? Crimson would have if her mouth was empty! She fled the area and neglected to comment on the backroom action. **Porter Tripp** **(38** **th** **Games** ) signed us a statement, claiming 'Crimson's business is her own. Piss off, please and thank you'. Oh Crimson, the nymphomaniac of the Capitol, what would we do without you being such a delightful presence within our grand city?

 **Chassis Macalister** **(31** **st** **Games)** may have failed to break the ongoing losing streak of District Six, but he and his team of demolition derby drivers (The Hooligans) broke the record for most opposing cars taken out in a single derby (twenty one!) and broke several of their bones at the same time. Chassis was not phased by any of his injuries, merely claiming ' _when you're a Hooligan it's all part of the job. Breaking stuff is basically what all of us, from myself to Captain Abe, do for a living. You did see me break the arena that one time right_ '? Indeed we did Chassis, indeed we did.

If you want a bigger losing streak than District Six then look no further than District Twelve! One victor to their name and it happened so very long ago, so long in fact a few readers don't even remember it. A shame because the Games won by **Duke Saint Rose (6** **th** **Games)** were easily a top five in the first decade of our grand tradition in my humble opinion. Duke, as he often does, said it's only a matter of time before a tribute from Twelve makes it home. He's vowed to save 'at least one innocent human being even if it kills him'. The odds of this vow coming true? Experts at the betting office claim 5000-1! Duke neglected to comment after this, focusing moreso on sewing up a fine mauve shirt.

There's always a troublemaker in our great country and **Jack Tylos (21** **st** **Games)** is often the troublemaker of the hour. He was, yet again, arrested for trying to steal a six pack of beer from one of the finest mega malls within the Capitol. Jack claimed 'I've just gotta steal. Me living without stealing is like a fish not swimming. It's just not right'. While the self-appointed 'master thief' was being arrested ten crates of beer were stolen from the back room without any trace of who pilfered them. Was there a connection? Was Jack just a distraction? Did he allow himself to be caught? Alas, the world may never know!

Even the original victor of our growing line-up, **Mizar Aldjoy (1** **st** **Games)** has been getting in on the action, kind of sort of. It's never a rare sight for him to get an incoming phone call and duck away into some empty closet to talk about… something. But what? What?! Sponsors making a pledge for the next Games? A family emergency? A secret lover despite his vow to remain single? Who could be on the other side of the first victor's phone? Tell us Mizar!

That's all we have for this issue, but buy the next issue and you'll be treated to more tales of the victors and what these celebrities of our nation our up to. As a teaser, it seems like our latest victor has already gotten herself into a spot of bother with Peacekeepers! Apparently she made something that can cook bread for the district citizens out of a mere four pieces of grain. Amazing! Of course, the Capitol will provide all that the districts need and thus our dear president had it taken into his control for the foreseeable future. Oh Wiress, you cheeky girl!

* * *

 **PUNS WITH FIR BUZZ (HOLD YOUR GROANS)!**

 _By Dominix Minter & Fir Buzz_

It's that time of the month again! Give it up for the princess of puns, the duchess of dim, the liaison of laughter… Fir Buzz! This week's topic… **bears**!

 _Bear_ with me! I'll think of some puns soon!

Like my house? I built it with my _bear_ hands!

Sometimes life is tough. We've just gotta grin and _bear_ it!

Ever been bitten by a mean ol' mutt? The pain is un _bear_ able!

What do you call a bear without any teeth? A _gummy bear_!

Why was Piglet looking in the toilet? He was searching for _Pooh_!

What would bears be without Bees? _Ears_ of course!

How can a bear catch fish without using a pole? Easy, they use their _bear_ hands!

Why do pandas love watching really old movies? Because they're in _black and white_!

What do you call a bear that's been in the rain too long? _A drizzly bear_!

* * *

 _[After Issue #559 of Games Galore Flavio Heartson was fired for neglecting to give the fallen tributes any actual names, thus triggering their lingering fanbases. He was soon rehired for catching a candid snapshot of Peridot on a date with a long time clerk of her favourite comicbook store in District One. Meanwhile Xanther L'Pronx was given a whole year in prison for breaking the taboo of revealing arena spoilers before a Hunger Games begins. The once fiery arena had to be massively terraformed to maintain the illusion of surprise, the mere mention of the fire within taking away basically all of the awe and cheers the arena was supposed to get from the Capitolites. The scandal ended up unintentionally saving the life of the next victor.]_

* * *

Katniss and Peeta held their respectful silence for Wiress over the next minute or so. With heavy hearts and a lump in their throats they continued on their way down the street without saying another word. It hurt too much.

They soon came to the forty eighth face on the ever long street. A young man with a rather lecherous smirk looked back up at her, a short beard adoring his shin and short curly hair adoring his face. Even in his imprinted face his eyebrows were notably puffy.

"Neon Erg," Peeta read, frowning. "First to die in the final Hunger Games. Apparently something of a womaniser in his youth… before he became terrified of all women."

Katniss found it hard to say anything at all for a few moments.

"He tried to kill me," Katniss muttered. "At the start of the quell's bloodbath, I mean. Plenty of others tried to… what made him go for me? Did I… do something?"

"I'm… not entirely sure," Peeta admitted. "Lucky for us both that Finnick was there."

* * *

Wiress' chapter has easily got one of my favourite formats thus far. A great way to tell the story a whole new way, build the world, catch up on past victors and give us a brand new way of getting to know the latest victor in the long list of Hunger Games survivors. So, what do you all think of Wiress? I feel like her being able to take over a massive electric dam… it just suits her, you know? She may be quirky, but she's one hell of a genius. Or perhaps the victor gossip of past champions was more your style? Either way, hope you liked it. Next up, the District Five Male from Catching Fire, a chapter sure to be both ridiculously lulzy and maybe a bit of a tearjerker as well? Stay tuned to find out more!

* * *

 **Stats**

 **District 1:** Peridot Gaudy (8th Games), Crystal McCree (14th Games), Bronze Marley (19th Games), Crown Martins (24th Games), Dollar Dettwieller (32nd Games), Mascara Court (41st Games), Platinum Twist (44th Games)

 **District 2:** Baron Overwhill (4th Games), Runa Peace (7th Games), Olga Machete (10th Games), Rook Valiant (17th Games), Boulder Atherston (20th Games), Vercingetorix Carnby (25th Games), Dragon Batofel (27th Games), Rhyder Overwhill (39th Games), Mercy Gregor (46th Games)

 **District 3:** Honorius Perthshire (5th Games), Pi Orbit (22nd Games), Beetee Latier (37th Games), Wiress Plummer (47th Games)

 **District 4:** Museida Selkirk (3rd Games), Mags Flanagan (11th Games), Tide Luther (23rd Games), Librae Ogilvy (35th Games)

 **District 5:** Shunt Gaspar (12th Games), Isobel Sparks (18th Games), Crimson Flanders (29th Games), Porter Tripp (38th Games)

 **District 6:** Chassis Macalister (31st Games)

 **District 7:** Pliny Aransio (2nd Games), Fir Buzz (9th Games), Jack Tylos (21st Games), Snag Nakamura (34th Games)

 **District 8:** Woof Casino (16th Games), Paige Murphy (30th Games), Spool Nylon (42nd Games)

 **District 9:** Mizar Aldjoy (1st Games), Gwenith Rosebud (13th Games), Teff Withers (28th Games), Laurel Flamsteel (36th Games), Tabbock Summers (43rd Games)

 **District 10:** Stallion March (26th Games), Lammy Phyronix (40th Games)

 **District 11:** Bear Redfoot (15th Games), Seeder Howell (33rd Games), Chaff Mitchell (45th Games)

 **District 12:** Duke Saint-Rose (6th Games)


	49. Neon Erg

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Hunger Games. They belong to Suzanne Collins.

 **Note:** Another victor of canon who, to my read of things at least, basically nobody really talks about or particularly cares for. The man from Five, dead in under a minute into the Quell to Finnick's trident. All we have is that, him trying to kill Katniss and the fact he puked over the sword training station… so in other words, more than enough for me to work with and craft a story out of. Just what is this man hiding? What mayhem happened in his arena? I tell you one thing… it's gloriously stupid. Enjoy!

* * *

Katniss continued to stare at the face of the deceased victor from Five for a while.

"I just don't know why he came after me first. I mean, I was the smallest one there. That and the symbol of rebellion… was that why he wanted to kill me? I didn't think he was pro-Capitol," Katniss muttered, uncertain of her every word. "I'd have thought Brutus would've tried it first."

"I can't claim to know what was going through his head," Peeta replied, humming thoughtfully. "He wasn't in the alliance to protect us, so there must have been something… I guess we'll add it to the list of things to ask at the victor party."

"I guess you're right," Katniss said, closing her eyes. "Until then… let's just keep silent for a moment."

"Can do," Peeta said.

The pair quietened down, maintaining a moment of silence for Neon.

"…You know, I think this was the same year Duke…" Peeta trailed off.

"Let's keep him in our thoughts too," Katniss agreed.

The pair went silent once more, both Neon and Duke in their thoughts and hearts,

* * *

 **48th Annual Hunger Games**

 **Name:** Neon Erg

 **Gender:** Male

 **District:** 5

 **Age:** 18

 **Kills:** 2

* * *

"Neon Erg!"

Most reapings in District Five happen in a grim silence, save the cries of horror from the family of a tribe or, rarely, the polite applause for anybody who bravely volunteers to take the place of somebody else (that is, unless they're convicts on death row…). Other than that, and the wailing of reaped tributes, it's often a quiet and sordid sort of affair.

This time is different. This time the name of the reaped boy is met with thunderous applause and cheers from almost all of the females who were reaping aged and even some of the males for that matter.

At a glance it's hard to understand why. Neon doesn't really seem like much as he mounts the stage, gazing out at the crowd with a lost expression. By all accounts he's a normal eighteen year old, save perhaps for his scruffy beard. He's tall, decently sized and lacks any obvious deformity that will inevitably get him bullied at school. Nothing that suggests people, especially the girls, would be glad to see him get reaped for the Games.

Then, when told to shake hands with his district partner, he gazes at her with one hell of a creepy leer, even licking his lips at the sight of a pretty girl from one of the power plants.

One sly wink and an attempt to grab her ass and breasts on the way into the judgement building and it becomes very clear what the problem here is. Neon's a pervert – a sexual harasses, in fact - and has no respect for the boundaries of the girls around him.

His district partner feels like breaking the taboo of killing your own district partner long before the final two or as an act of mercy is very tempting. Many of those in the crown cannot even begin to blame her for this. They all know what the infamous boy is like.

Inappropriate comments. Gropes that landed him plenty of bruises. Sneaking into strip clubs. The list goes on and on.

At least, at long last, this little problem is going to be taken care of. Nobody thinks he stands a chance in the arena and, even if he did, there's no way he won't just anger the career girls and run into trouble with them in three days tops after the gong.

Neon gets no support. Meanwhile his partner Ivette had the whole district backing her towards victory, every step of the way.

He hardly noticed. He'd stopped leering over Ivette and had begun to drool over Crimson and Porter. The latter of the pair, silent as always, gave Neon a warning glare while Crimson ended up unable to be around him and locked herself in her room.

Neon's tasteless question of asking if he could get what her Capitol lovers got from her was more than the poor women could take.

Porter agreed to mentor Neon for the sake of her friend, but it was no secret that both she and Crimson were going to be putting their focus towards saving Ivette. She was a smart worker at one of the three biggest power plants and at the age of eighteen already had been promoted to a junior overseer level. She contributed so much.

Neon was just some pervert.

* * *

As he did every year Duke sat with the ever increasing selection of mentors to watch the tribute parade. He could only hope this year his tributes would get some attention, both survive the bloodbath and that one of them would then go on to finally, finally come home safe.

So, the same hope as every year since he won so very long ago.

From his position at the end of the row of victors, beside the trio from District Eleven, Duke watched as the tributes came out one chariot at a time. The Ones were glamorous and cruel, the Twos were mighty and sadistic, the Threes were brainiacs and even had a bit of muscle to them… it was going to be another tough year.

After all, by pure coincidence, this year all of the tributes were eighteen. The competition was the fiercest it had been in years, and it was fierce to begin with.

"Come on, make them like you," Duke whispered.

Alas, the spoiled Capitolites paid the Twelves almost no attention whatsoever. Who cared about a pair of lanky miners when there some shiny, exciting careers leading the parade?

But they were not the only ones getting attention. So was the boy from Five. Duke was one of several amongst the victors who cringed by the way he leered at Ivette and made whistles and catcalls to the girls from Four and Six. The Capitol may have found it funny, but the girls looked particularly upset and few mentors seemed happy either.

"Disgraceful display," Olga muttered.

"Come on Tire, give him hell! You don't have to take it from him!" Chassis called out.

"Show that piece of shit who's boss Dolphin!" Librae yelled. "Dude, take him out and throw him out!"

All the glory of the careers and the antics of Neon left Duke's pair with nothing just like they had every year. Another box on the list of failure was given a tick: impress nobody at the parade.

It wasn't long before the tributes were taken towards the tribute building and the mentors were all rounded up and led off to meet them there as was the yearly norm. Duke could only sigh, knowing all too well that this was going to be another year of defeat.

It was becoming painful to keep hoping for any change.

Even so, the aging tailor couldn't keep himself from smiling when Pliny moved to walk beside him. His lifelong best friend, even after all this time they were still as close as ever. As close as they were from the moment Duke comforted her atop the roof of the tribute building over forty years previously.

"Think this might be your year?" Pliny asked, zig-zagging sleepily as she walks along.

"It'll have to happen eventually, right?" Duke replied, shrugging softly. "District Six eventually got their first victor… one day I'll mentor a victor of my own."

"I'm happy to help you, you know," Pliny replied, moving closer to Duke. "I mean… if my pair are dead, count me as one of your team."

"Thanks," Duke said, sighing. "I don't know, it's hard to keep any optimism sometimes. I guess… if I can save just one person then I can die happy."

"You will. I know it," Pliny patted her friend on his back. "So… wanna go hang out at Crown and Harp's night club? Maybe after the interviews happen?"

"You got it," Duke agreed, weakly smiling.

The pair exchanged a fist bump, just as they did every year, before heading off to meet up with their tributes and start the next phase of the mentoring process. Both wanted one of their own tributes to win above all else.

Both would be able to live with one of their friend's tributes being the victor instead.

* * *

Training was eventful as it was every year. The careers were intimidating, some so called 'cannon fodder' made all sorts of embarrassing mistakes such as the boy from eight breaking a finger and both alliances and enemies were formed.

Neon made himself twelve very angry enemies.

While technically speaking every tribute had twenty three enemies it was mainly due to the nature of the Games and not out of any highly personal hatred or malice. It was simply the way things were. But not in this case, far from it. Neon's perverted actions had landed him at the top of the shit list of every single one of the female tributes. Even the boys eyed him with a sort of coolness.

He'd copped a feel of the girl from One's breasts.

He'd tried to kiss the girl from Two.

He followed the girl from Three around for an hour, flirting with her.

He wrote the girl from Four an erotic poem.

He tried to sneak into Ivette's bed.

He slapped the girl from Six on the ass.

He cat called the girl from Seven while she was doing yoga.

He was caught trying to watch the girl from Eight get changed.

He succeeded in watching the girl from Nine get changed… and _then_ got caught.

He stole the girl from Ten's bra.

He took a lock of the girl from Eleven's hair.

He successfully got into the girl from Twelve's bed.

After this it was no surprise that, by the end of the training days, all of the girls wanted Neon's head on a pike. He creeped them out, he made them want to be sick and he made them feel personally violated. Something had to be done about this little freak.

What better plan was there than to kill him? None whatsoever as far as the girls were all concerned.

Neon was not concerned. He'd found he was a complete natural with the flail mace and sprinting. That, and he assumed the girls were just playing hard to get. He smirked as he swaggered around the training centre, not concerned over his odds. Whatever way it was dressed up he had better odds than the half-starved boys from Ten, Eleven and Twelve.

Sure enough he scored an eight. He gave Porter a smirk, asking if she had anything in mind to congratulate him.

Porter just narrowed her eyes, leering in a way that was nothing like Neon's lecherous leer. Hers was much scarier.

Another girl playing hard to get was what the playa of Five assumed was the case.

Neon failed to see the scowls sent his way by Crimson and Ivette. He had no idea what was coming for him…

* * *

Duke sat in the audience with the other victors to watch the interview going on. After so many years of doing this it got pretty boring. He knew what to expect – the careers practically worked off of a script – and what Caesar was most likely to say in response. All he was there for was to see for himself if one of his tributes could somehow whoa the nation and give him a chance to reel in some of the sponsors watching in the audience.

He wasn't optimistic.

Unlike the parade there was no exact seating for the victors beyond 'just be here', and so he was free to sit next to Pliny as the show went by. Both of them felt a strong distaste for the way the careers from One and Two had graphically described what they could do with spears.

The Threes weren't much better, the boy being a smug hacker and the girl wanting to cut off Neon's penis and shove it up his ass before lighting him ablaze in a ditch.

"Points for creativity," Pliny said, yawning.

"Just so long as she keeps away from my tributes I don't mind too much," Duke replied. "I think them going last is what hurts their chances most. The audience hardly pay attention that long and by then their anxiety is often too much to overcome."

"It's unfair," Pliny agreed. "Hey, uh… where'd Vercingetorix go?"

"Outside for a smoke," Duke said. "Remember?"

"Yeah, an hour ago," Pliny said, glancing at the time on her small red phone. "Maybe he had a second smoke?"

"Or a tenth," Duke added. "Oh, look… it's _him_."

Neon had come out on stage for his interview, chatting amicably with Caesar. For a short time it seemed like there was no particular problems that would arise from his on-stage chatter.

For a minute anyway.

The victors were groaning and the tributes were growling as Neon launched into a long talk about how sexy he thought the female tributes were, going into needless detail. Much of the Capitol audience laughed – as did Tide and Dragon, both unable to resist – as Neon spoke in-depth about the 'stats' of the girls and his hopes for one of them to at least kiss him before they died.

The moment he said he hoped the tribute uniforms were just bikinis and for it to be a beach arena was the moment that the career girl vowed to strangle Neon with his own intestines.

Neon left the stage posing, blowing kisses, flexing and even dabbing to the applause of the crowd. The pervert, per the norm, failed to notice the hatred in the eyes of the female tributes.

They all glared at him like how a father may look at a thug who just killed his young child.

Duke tried to give Neon no more focus than he deserved – so, none basically – and instead kept paying attention as his own tributes got closer. Pliny's pair did passably, at least not choking or flubbing on their words, while the boy from Ten really blew his own interview. It gave Duke hope his own pair would not be at the very bottom of the barrel this time.

Alas, they were both stammering and nervous. None of the Capitolites spared them any mind at all, more focused on talking about all of the tributes who had gone on before them. The show ended and the victors, whether or not their tributes and done amazingly or pathetically, started to leave.

"Night club in two hours?" Pliny asked Duke.

"I'll be there," Duke said, nodding. "I may be late. Most years I have to help at least one my of tributes calm down and not attempt to kill themselves pre-emptively."

Pliny's horrified expression said it all. She gave Duke a gentle hug.

"You'll save somebody, I know it," Pliny whispered.

Duke inwardly disagreed.

* * *

Neon was confident as he was risen into the arena. He had scored well, he had hot chicks playing hard to get… if he could save one from death in the opening minutes then he'd have himself a romance in the arena, and perhaps even more. Hubba bubba!

Neon was launched between the boys from Six and Ten, quickly taking in all of his surroundings. The circular area he and the rest were in was… ugly. Boring even. Grey and lifeless, filled with rocks and few steam geysers that would no doubt be dangerous. The only colour came from the silver cornucopia and the supplies that were scattered around and within it.

It was the area beyond the grim, grey, rocky circle that caught everybody's attention. It was like the arena had been split into four quarters beyond the central zone; a land of fire and lava, a large amount of dirt hills and some deep mines, a flooded beach cove and tall mountains that seemed to touch the clouds.

Four quarters. Four elements. Fire, Earth, Water and Air.

The gong rang and Neon practically flew off of his platform, more than ready to fight to stay alive. It was a strong year filled with strong tributes. He knew for a fact they'd do the same as him to get back home. He was far from incorrect.

The twenty four tributes ran the two hundred yards towards the weapons laid out by the cornucopia. The boys from Ten, Eleven and Twelve bought up the rear of the pack. The boy from One bought up the front of the pack with ease.

Or at least he did until he tripped over some rocky ground and fell forwards towards a geyser. He caught himself before he could hit himself against any rocks, but one blast of the boiling water against his face left him screaming and wailing in agony.

It was easy for Neon, armed with just a rock, to smash the life out of him with a single strike.

The boy from Twelve met a similar fate. One blast from the boiling geyser water made him easy prey for the opportunistic boy from Eleven.

It was complete mayhem at the cornucopia. Perhaps it was the instinctive desire to live. Perhaps it was the fact the tributes being eighteen made them all at least passably capable of fighting. Maybe they were just a batch more willing to kill than in a normal year.

Whatever the case, weapons were taken in hand and blood was being spilt. The girls from One and Two wasted no time dragging the boy from Seven into the cornucopia to his doom, the boys from Three and Nine wrestled on the rocky ground, the boy from Two was taken completely off of his guard when the boy from Eight leapt out from under an overturned crate with a knife in hand and the girl from Four resorting to using her bare hands to strangle the life out of the boy from Eleven.

Neon used his speed to his advantage, weaving through the carnage and, with the best backpack in his grasp, loaded up on all the scraps of food and water that he could see. He grabbed up a flail mace placed there specifically for him and, upon hearing noise behind him, turned around and struck the boy from Ten before he could try anything with his pair of daggers. One smash was all it took for the boy to drop.

Neon had started to jog away from the ongoing bloodbath, only to pause when a near deafening boom of thunder filled the entire sky in the central area of the arena. Loud enough for everybody still alive to pause what they were doing and gaze around.

Neon glanced back at the corpses scattered lifelessly around the area, all the litres of blood that had coated the once grey ground and how twelve girls were all still alive and now armed with a variety of sharp, blood-soaked and rather painful weapons.

The twelve girls took note of how eleven of the twelve boys were laying dead in puddles of their own blood and fluids. A single boy was left not even a hundred yards away… the same boy who had been sexually harassing them over and _over_ and _**over**_ again for a whole week.

Their eyes narrowed and their gazes hardened as they stopped gazing at each other and instead gazed over at Neon.

It suddenly became apparent to the pervert that the girls were snarling at him and gripping their weapons tight enough to make their knuckles turn white.

"GET HIM!" the girl from Two roared. "Yank out his guts! Strangle him with them!"

"Smash his teeth out with a hammer!" the girl from Ten bellowed.

"I say we castrate him with a saw!" the girl from Seven shouted.

The girls all charged towards Neon, murder in their eyes.

Neon screamed like a little kid who had just inhaled helium and ran for his life towards the water zone of the arena.

He didn't stop screaming as the crowd of girls chased him away from the cornucopia.

He didn't stop screaming as they chased him down the beach.

He didn't stop screaming when they chased him towards the earth zone, unsuccessfully throwing spears at him.

They only stopped chasing him when Neon managed to hide himself in an alcove within one of the mines. The girls, muttering to each other how much of a horrible creep the boy was, took their collective leave back to the cornucopia.

Neon was left in the dark, wide eyed and breathing deep, rapid breathes like a lunatic. Nothing but sheer terror remained in his eyes. The girls weren't playing hard to get, they wanted to kill him! Kill him horribly!

It was a while of gasping and wheezing in pure terror and exhaustion from his running before Neon realised he had committed the ultimate social faux-pass of any victor.

He'd pissed his pants.

* * *

Duke watched from his seat in the mentoring room, already falling into his usual resigned depression due to the death of his male tribute. His girl was still alive and, amazingly, was right beside eleven other tributes without any of them attacking her.

It was bizarre to see twelve tributes, all from a different district, not trying to kill each other. Just walking and talking.

Crazy as it was, hatred for the pervert had bought them together.

Duke only half watched as the massive alliance of women made their way back towards the cornucopia, exchanging barbed comments about Neon and bonding over little things from their home lives. Their sheer hatred for the boy outweighed their reasons to attack each other. The girls from Two and Seven shared an interest in wrestling, the girls from Three and Nine both loved hover ball, even the girls from Six and Twelve found common ground in the form of liking dolls.

Duke braced himself for the gamemakers doing something to drive them apart sand kill off a few of them. District unity was the last thing they wanted.

It never became needed. The girls armed themselves with their favoured weapons and gathered up all the supplies that they would need for the days ahead. After that they split into three different alliances and, once the girl from Ten had rigged up the cornucopia with a few traps in case Neon came back later, they headed off in different directions to hunt the pervert down.

The girls from One, Two, Seven and Ten headed for the water zone.

The girls from Three, Five, Nine and Eleven headed for the fire zone.

The girls from Four, Six, Eight and Twelve headed for the earth zone.

"Well, Neon's fucked," Dragon remarked, starting to laugh. "Poor bastard."

With things started to slow down majorly Duke was able to turn his attention to the other thing on his mind. Something he just could not ignore.

Vercingetorix and Pliny were nowhere in sight.

Pliny had not arrived at the night club the previous night. He'd assumed she'd just fallen asleep again, it being rather likely due to her narcolepsy, but now she wasn't even here either to watch over the female tribute. Snag and Jack had the matter covered while Fir went out to look for sponsors, but it was still odd. Victors didn't just decide not to show up.

That was odd, but Vercingetorix not showing up? That was really strange, he was among the most punctual of mentors. Olga would never tolerate him being late. Even if he was sick the legendary victor from Two would force him out of bed and practically frog march him into work. What was going on?

"Hey, Mizar? Mind covering for me for a few hours? I need to go meet with a sponsor," Duke said, starting to stand up.

"Sure," Mizar said, moving over to take Duke's seat. "My poor boy's already… nevermind, you can go."

Duke thanked Mizar and took off. He had an itch of curiosity he just needed scratched. A feeling of premonition and suspicion that just had to be solved.

He figured he knew where to start.

* * *

Neon had stayed hidden in his safe spot within the mine for hours, barely daring to even twitch his toes. The scent of urine and humiliation filled the air, alongside the stench of terror sweat. It was sinking into Neon just how lucky he was to even be alive. If he was any slower than his considerably fast speed he'd be just another tribute in a casket.

It also occurred to him that he was _royally fucked_ and not in a way he wanted by, say, a hot princess or something. Being chased by a hoard of women was nothing like he'd fantasised; it was horrible! The hoard were all alive and they were all teamed up, not one of them willing to attack each other until he was dead.

Neon sobbed, his blood running cold.

The thing was… Neon's sobbing was very loud, raspy and all out filled with blubbering. It made it all too easy for the pack of girls that had doubled back to the earth area to find him and continue the chase. Some would say being chased by four people rather than twelve is much better in comparison.

Some, like Neon, would say any number of people chasing you is horrifying when they all hold swords and spears and furthermore intend to drag the kill out. Neon ran for his life deeper into the dark mine, taking turns at random and having no idea where he was going. All he knew was that these girls weren't sexy, they were sadistic!

The gamemakers, all laughing at the action, deciding to help Neon out. Not out of any sort of compassion – a gamemaker who cares for human life was always a big no-no after all – and moreso because none of the girls would kill each other until Neon died and for the additional fact that Neon bought out a ferocious aggression within the other tributes they'd not bring out of each other. For the sake of ratings the pervert would live a little longer.

All it took was the push of a button to trigger the mine to start collapsing. Neon burst out into the evening light and ran screaming off towards the distant place where Earth met the Fire section of the arena. The girls from Four, Six and Eight followed him all the way there while the girl from Twelve fell behind in the chase.

Hard to keep running when, much like her parents, she'd been crushed in a mine collapse.

* * *

Duke tried not to let his feelings of depression and lack of any worth show on his face. Not when he entered 'Martins & Victory: Forever Sweet', or 'MV' as most of the more rebellious victors called it. Harp waved Duke over from her spot by the bar counter, diligently working to count how many sweets were in a jar.

"Hi Duke," Harp said, smiling. "How is, um… you feeling? Sad?"

Harp glanced over at the TV where the screen was divided into twelve, each box showing what one of the top half of the tributes were doing. Not one box showed a tribute from District Twelve.

"I saw it on one of the street screens on the way here," Duke sighed, resigned. "Well, I've gone through this forty one times already. What's a forty second?"

Harp gave Duke a sympathetic, sad sort of smile as she carefully poured out his usual drink – a medium red smoke on the rocks – and looked at what the girl from One was doing.

"So, um… how has you been? Been… doing fine?" Harp asked.

"I'm living," Duke replied, taking a gulp of his drink as soon as Harp passed it over. "Four caps, right?"

"On house," Harp assured him.

"Thanks," Duke took another gulp of his drink. "Harp have you seen Pliny? She's gone missing."

Harp frowned, as if straining herself to think the question over. After a few moments she gave an apologetic sort of grimace.

"Am sorry. Not seen her," Harp replied, returning to counting the candy. "Um… was it, um… sixty… sixty five? …Start over."

Harp sighed as she began counting all over again.

"Tenth time," Harp said, shaking her head. "Not seen Pliny. Never here. Vercing… Verci… uh… Quell winner. He's not here either. Boulder asked."

"Yeah, Vercingetorix is gone too. What's going on here?" Duke could only shake his head, lost. "Ok, where to start with this… where would Pliny go?"

"…Uh… bed?" Harp guessed. "Or here. Often here."

"Perhaps something happened to her on the way," Duke realised. "But what? No crime really happens in the Capitol. Not on the streets anyway."

Harp sheepishly shrugged, having no idea at all. For a while Duke drank and tried to think everything over. A glance at a newspaper told him everything he needed to know.

 _Kidnapper strikes again. Turn to page ten._

That's exactly what Duke did. It was only a small article, one lacking much in the way of solid evidence. It detailed how twenty two Capitol children had been kidnapped over the previous two years with there being no leads found at all. Duke couldn't help snorting when he read statements of the terrified, miserable families.

"Bit rich of them to cry over their kids being kidnapped when they essentially kidnap ours every year," Duke muttered.

"Children are still children," Harp said, quietly.

Duke realised he could not disagree. It took a while of carefully reading the article before he came across anything useful.

"Always strikes at night. Victims appear to go willingly. No signs of there being any struggles," Duke paused, wondering what this could all mean. "…I'll see you later Harp, I've got some investigating to do."

"Ohhhh, fun. What kind?" Harp asked.

"Hopefully the successful kind," Duke replied. "I just need to think… what would make twenty two kids go willingly… and two victors? Unless the victors didn't go quietly…"

Duke left without another word. Harp watched him go… only to realise she'd lost count of the sweets in the jar once again. With a long suffering groan she restarted yet again.

* * *

Two days had been and gone since the gong had rang. As the sun rose on the third day in the arena Neon was struggling not to sob and shudder as he tightly wrapped a bandage around his lower left arm. He'd evaded one of the packs of girls only to run right into another. His legs burnt from exhaustion and his arm throbbed from where the girl from Three had managed to stab him. Only his bigger size and stronger muscles enabled him to throw her to the ground and escape.

Since evading the girls by hopping across stepping stones within a river of lava a single cannon had fired. Neon tried not to think of the sight of the girl from Eleven falling into the lava.

"She was hot… then she was _hot_ … fuck, fuck…" Neon twitched and shivered, hardly aware of what he was saying. "Get me out of here! They're gonna kill me!"

Neon was only able to rest and drink water for another minute or so. The three remaining girls of the nearest pack had found a way around the lava river and Neon's shouts had alerted them to his location. With another shrill scream he was off like a rocket, wailing that it had all 'just been a bit of fun' as the girls began to unsuccessfully throw knives towards him.

The booming of a cannon only made the girls chase their prey all the faster and throw their weapons all the harder. Another girl being dead meant one less to punish this sick pervert.

Across the arena in the water zone the girl from Seven had died from some rather vicious crab mutts. Her allies slaughtered the mutts, vowing to keep the hunt for Neon going strong in her name.

* * *

While large screens upon buildings displayed Neon running for his life between flame geysers and leaping across small lava streams Duke was calmly walking down one of the Capitol's many streets. So far his search for clues had come up empty, but a flock of peacekeepers within the area had gathered his attention.

It had to be something big.

"What's going on here?" Duke asked, arriving on the scene only to be blocked by a peacekeeper.

"Stand back. This isn't a place for civilians," the peacekeeper said.

"I am standing back. What's going on?" Duke repeated.

"District citizens don't need to know," the peacekeeper scoffed.

"I know that accent. You're from Two, right?" Duke crossed his arms, unimpressed. "That means you're as much a district citizen as I am, except I'm a victor."

"A weak victor," the peacekeeper snorted.

"Stronger than two of your careers that year," Duke said, undeterred.

"…Fine," the peacekeeper scowled behind his helmet. "It's not a 'crime scene' in the normal sense. No bodies or anything. Just a lot of wreckage – broken trash cans, scattered junk and so forth – and a splash of blood. No idea whose it is. We're just doing clean up."

"Clean up, seriously? Aren't you going to try and catch whoever did this?" Duke asked.

"Not our job to do that. Snow wants the citizens in the capitol to keep living as they are. The existence of things like crime makes that rather hard," the peacekeeper said, already walking away. "Better luck winning next year. Or the year after that… eh, you'll never save anybody."

"Asshole," Duke muttered, turning away to think. "Hmmm… evidence. How to get hold of it before it's taken away?"

Duke glanced around, soon spotting a peacekeeper taking off his uniform and helmet as they went on break. A smirk began to appear upon his face as inspiration struck.

* * *

Neon had made a desperate run into the air section of the arena in hopes of evading the girls out for his blood. With nine people out to murder him, no sponsors coming down, pain filling his body, an inability to find a chance to 'relieve' himself in the past week and the fact some wild fruit made him sick… it was no wonder really that he'd been sobbing for hours and hours.

"What do I do, what do I do?" he frantically whispered to himself. "If they find me they'll kill me! I can't fight them all at once!"

Neon decided his only card to play was to keep moving and make it as hard as possible for the girls to reach him. He spent much of the day climbing towards the peak of the mountain, high enough to feel light amounts of dizziness from the thin air.

He remained where he was for several hours, staring blankly towards the increasingly dark sky. All was peaceful, almost to the point he started to calm down.

A mistake for sure, especially as the girls from One, Two and Ten found him when darkness had descended. With a high pitched scream Neon was once again off like a rocket, sobbing and shouting as he ran down the mountain trail with shouts of anger and hatred behind him.

"Kill him! Kill him!"

"Shoot him Chickadee, quick!"

Neon howled as the girl from Ten sent an arrow into his right arm with her crossbow. Not enough to kill, but enough to cause agony comparable to having ones toes roasted on an open flame. Even so, Neon didn't stop running.

He didn't stop running when the girls from Three, Five and Nine met them midway down the mountain, sharp blades in hand.

He didn't stop running when the gamemakers triggered a landslide to heighten the entertainment value.

He didn't stop when two cannons fired and the bodies of the girls from Three and Nine tumbled past him, their bones broken and rocks embedded within their limbs and skulls.

He ran off into the night, howling and crying with blood leaking down his arm. His exhausted foes shouted and yelled insults and threats after him, themselves too tired and somewhat wounded to be able to keep the chase going.

"Is this a punishment?" Neon asked a while later, hiding away in a cove near the sea of the water section of the arena. "Is this for all the groping and teasing? It was only a bit of fun!"

Neon yanked the arrow out of his arm. An instant later his scream echoed through the night.

* * *

Duke was amazed at how easy it had been to get the clues into his hands before they got destroyed. It was simply a matter of wearing a peacekeeper uniform and speaking in a gruff voice. Apparently he sounded exactly like one of the generals of the unit, enough so that he was permitted to take the evidence away to dispose of.

Evidence that he had taken into a cheap motel room to analyse further. It hadn't been easy, but over the past few days he felt like he was starting to get somewhere with his investigation. Some things just needed a district mindset to get the job done.

A tiny piece of torn fabric had been on the same outfit Pliny had worn at the parade. A tiny clipping of red hair was surely hers as well. The garbage that lay around did not directly point him to anything in particular. Some of it had surely just been the result of trash cans getting knocked over.

But that did not explain one particular piece of rubbish, too minor to be of much notice to anybody. A gas station receipt with a small speck of blood upon it that had almost fallen down a gutter by the time Duke grabbed it.

The vital clue.

Duke stood beside a scientist in a blood lab deep within the Capitol, still in the stolen peacekeeper uniform, watching over the women as she analysed the blood and the receipt it was stained into.

"So, you're sure you can work out where this came from, and who dropped it?" Duke asked.

"Capitol tech can do anything," the women replied, bored.

"Well, it hasn't helped find Pliny yet. Nor Vercingetorix, or those Capitol kids who went missing," Duke replied, unimpressed.

"…Anyway, the results are done," the women frowned, plucking a paper handout from the machine. "The blood could be one of twenty people. Probably related, or suffering the same contamination."

"Contamination?" Duke repeated.

"They call it garbage fever," the women said, shrugging. "Comes with working with so much trash outside the city limits. Mainly just makes people wheezy, sickly and gross."

The women passed Duke the paper of results and sent him off on his way without any fanfair. Duke, of course, did not need any sort of fanfair.

He'd already gotten something better. Knowledge.

"City limits. Garbage dump," Duke whispered, the pieces coming together in his head. "Pliny's hair… the clothing piece… of course."

Duke took off running down the street like a blur, beelining towards the very distant garbage dump. Despite being a man almost aged sixty he ran like he was a seventeen year old tribute all over again.

He tried to ignore the screens around the Capitol showing the boy from Five doing his own sort of running. Running for his life across a beach filled with crab mutts, several girls in pursuit of him and the girls from One and Ten being torn apart by the crab mutts a distance behind.

Six remained and it seemed that the finale was going to be arriving earlier this year.

* * *

Neon felt like he was dead and just hadn't realised it yet. He'd barely been able to sleep, think or get a single moment to himself. Not when there was no sort of peace from danger and death within the arena. Everywhere he went the girls would just follow him around, always with their sharp weapons and threats of gutting him like a pig.

After castrating him first, of course.

Neon was getting far too tired to keep on running as much as he had been. If he slowed to the point they could catch him the Games, and his life, would end. That's what the Games had turned into; one long, horrible, tormenting chase inflicted upon him. At best he only got an hour or two to rest before the girls would find him.

Neon thought the gamemakers were leading them towards him and using the traps to whittle their numbers down until one of them caught him.

He was correct, but hardly cared for this. He just wanted the pain to stop.

Not only had he suffered the prior arrow wound, but that same arm had been clipped by a knife and a thrown tomahawk. That was to say nothing of his left arm that dangled usefully by his side; a nasty armadillo mutt he'd evaded a short time ago in the earth section of the arena had left it broken in three places before he'd gotten away.

Neon knew his screams would attract the girls towards him.

He still did not think he'd done much wrong.

"Why am I being punished?!" he yelled to the nation. "It's not my fault girls are hot!"

It was complete and utter the wrong thing to say. Especially because all five of the remaining girls had been prowling nearby and resumed the chase faster that Neon could say the word 'tits'.

Neon was left to flee towards the air section once again, pleading the gamemakers to set off some kind of a trap. He sobbed and loudly blubbered, wailing that he didn't want to die.

They answered his admittedly embarrassing display in the form of setting off a geyser of boiling water right as the girl from Eight ran over it. Neon didn't hear the canon over his own screeches and screams.

He was more focused on wailing as a knife clipped his broken left arm.

* * *

Duke had made it to the city limits after nightfall had arrived. He could only shake his head at the sight before him.

Massive towers of waste, much of it from useless products or tons of food that was left uneaten. A miles wide showing of how wasteful the Capitol and all its excess truly was. Orange fires and thick clouds of smoke billowed to the skies above, never getting any closer towards getting rid of the massive mess.

For one dark moment Duke mused that it'd be a great arena for a Hunger Games, maybe one with Capitol kids.

"No, no, enough out of that," Duke said to himself, shaking his head. "Sooty told you to break that habit. Bad thoughts help nobody."

Keeping his boyfriend's words in mind Duke started to make his way deeper and deeper into the valley of trash. It was where the clues had led him; either Pliny was here… or her body was.

Duke hoped for the former as he passed by a stack of junk that made him have to pause. Sitting amongst the wreckage was a practically brand new pick-axe.

"…Haven't seen you in a while," Duke remarked, hoisting up the tool. "Are you… eyes, you are."

A sort of grim nostalgia filled Duke's eyes as he looked down at the pickaxe in his hands. It had the same scratches on it that he'd etched into it all those years ago back in those canyons.

It was the same pickaxe that had taken out three early careers.

"You served me well once. I think you'll serve me well tonight," Duke gulped as he kept moving. "What a coincidence… and now I'm talking to myself… I'm must be madder than I thought."

Stars began to lightly shine in the darkening sky as Duke kept walking, his ears peaked for any signs of noise.

* * *

A cannon fired, ever so loud.

All it had taken was a yeti being unleashed at the base of the mountain for the girl from Six to meet her demise at a pair of nasty, sharp claws. Her screams were left forgotten and mostly unheard by the remaining chasers and the boy they were chasing after.

Especially as they were finally starting to narrow the gap and close in on their prey. It wouldn't be much longer now until Neon was within distance of impalement.

Neon cried for his mother. The remaining three girls had split from each other, ensuring there was no possible way for him to loop around them and flee back to the ground. The only way left was upwards.

Exactly the place a rockslide was coming from. All the screaming had ended up causing enough vibrations to dislodge enough stones for a mass of rubble to come crashing down.

Neon was lucky enough to have not been in its path. The same was the case for the girl from Two and Ivette. Not so much the girl from Four, smashed into a gory mess by the rubble without a chance to get out of the way.

The cannon boomed and the chase continued without the slightest of pauses or interruptions.

* * *

Duke had been wandering around the garbage dump for hours in search of his friend. He wanted to call for her, only to hold back in fear that her possible captor would kill her if he tried. No, a stealthy approach was best.

It wasn't stealth that led him to his goal in the end, however.

It was the sound of crying.

Duke crept closer to the sounds beyond the mountains of garbage until he came to a wall of broken bricks. He hoisted himself up to the top, staring out at what lay beyond the wall.

The sight had him holding back a shout of horror. As a victor he knew instantly what was playing out in front of him. For the life of him he just couldn't work out the how and the why.

Twenty four crude pedestals had been set up in a circle around a rusty cornucopia. In a word, the horn made out of wires, sheets of metal and mangy fabric was crap. The supplies within were hardly anything useful; broken knives, shards of glass, rolls of duct tape, half eaten sandwiches, a slice of mouldy cake…

The thing that really had Duke having to fight back the urge to vomit was the source of the crying. Various Capitol teenagers, from young men and women at the age of eighteen to tiny kids at the tender age of twelve, were stuck onto the pedestals by duct tape around their mangled shoes and scratched legs. All howled, sobbed and cried for their parents, pleading for mercy.

"…Children are children," Duke whispered Harp's earlier words, sick at himself for the mere thought of a 'Capitol Games'. "This is wrong. They're just children."

It wasn't long before he noticed that two amongst the crowd were not children at all. Instead they were adults, one a little older than himself and one middle aged. It wasn't even an instant before he realised he was looking at Vercingetorix and Pliny, the former staggering on the spot with a nasty bruise on his head and the latter dazed and confused from her spot between two boys that seemed like they were twins.

"Ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to the Forty Eighth and a Half Hunger Games!" a nasally voice rang out from nearby. "Get ready for the fun to begin! Fight with courage and honour so that your victory, and sacrifice, will always be remembered!"

Duke spotted the culprit watching from a high point atop a rigging platform. Even from afar he could easily make out the figure of a fairly short, extremely obese man with neon green hair gazing downwards at the tributes. It seemed like his red rags were some half-assed attempt at mimicking the uniform of a head gamemaker.

The kidnapper. Who else but him?

All for the sake of putting on his own personal Hunger Games.

"The countdown begins now! Remember, no moving until one minute has passed!" the man continued, bouncing on his heels and wobbling like a bowl of jelly. "Oh man, oh man, I'm so psyched!"

Duke made his way towards the kidnapper's platform as quickly as he could force his old body to go. He'd only made it halfway there before something else filled the air other than crying and wailing from the youths.

A thud.

Duke peered out from behind the cover of garbage and saw that Vercingetorix, suffering the effects of a nasty concussion – probably from during his abduction – had lost his balance and fallen off of his pedestal.

"Why are you… doing this?" the quell victor managed to choke out.

"No! No! No!" the kidnapper scowled, huffing like a sort of child. "You broke the first rule of the Hunger Games, boy from Two! No moving until a minute has passed!"

Vercingetorix managed to sit himself up and work to rise up to his feet. From there he figured he may be able to grab a weapon and fight his way out of the garbage dump. He'd done more or less the exact same thing nearly twenty five years ago.

He didn't get the chance.

"Boom! Landmines!" the kidnapped yelled, aiming his pistol towards Vercingetorix.

Three shots were wide misses. The fourth hit Vercingetorix right between his eyes. He slumped over in a lifeless heap without another word.

There was no dramatic silence or a moment of everybody being unable to believe what just happened. Instead everybody began to scream and shout in terror.

"Boom!" the kidnapper yelled. "One cannon!"

Duke raced to the platform and began to climb the ladder leading towards the top where the madman laughed at the carnage that was starting to unfold.

The laughter turned into snarls of fury when several of the kids got themselves free from their pedestals and began to run for the lives.

"No, no, no!" the kidnapper yelled, reloading his pistol.

Despite being a poor shot, the children were poor enough runners that it did not take much effort for the kidnapper to kill several of them for 'breaking the rules'. Some ran off into the garbage dump, including the pair of twins, while others were left dead around the untouched cornucopia. Thirteen children and Vercingetorix were dead before Duke reached the top of the platform, red filling his vision.

Pliny was the only one still stuck to her pedestal, unable to break free. Tears ran down her face and her shaken screams for help filled the garbage dump. The sound was enough to strengthen Duke's resolve and worsen his temper.

It was never wise to anger a boy from Twelve.

"You're ruining the Games!" the kidnapper yelled.

"It's about to get a whole lot worse!" Duke shouted.

He lunged, tackling the kidnapper to the ground. In an instant they were rolling around in a fierce battle of fists, feet and raw brutality.

* * *

Rain fell upon the mountain and thunder reigned supreme in the sky. A storm had hit the arena of the Forty Eighth Hunger Games and the three remaining tributes were baring the brunt of it.

None moreso than Neon. His body was filled with ongoing agony, he'd pissed himself out of terror once again, the last two girls were edging ever closer with their sharp weapons glinting in the rain and his eyes were aflame from tears.

"I'm sorry!" he wailed. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I was just fooling around! I'm sorry! Please!"

"Shall we do the honours?" Ivette asked the girl from Two, panting as she tried to keep up with Neon.

"Gladly," the career girl replied.

But the career girl's gaze swiftly hardened. Only one could live and Neon was clearly looking half dead already. No difficulty in killing him at all. Ivette, meanwhile, was still healthy… well, relatively speaking.

The rockslide that was incoming from ahead would only make the job easier.

"But first, you can get a head start to hell," the girl from Two continued.

In a swift motion she stabbed Ivette in the gut, easily enough to be a fatal wound.

What she had not counted on was Ivette falling forth from her sprinting and crashing right into her. As Ivette lay dying upon her the girl from Two could only helplessly watch as Neon staggered away to the side and off to the peak of the mountain.

She also saw the rubble rapidly approaching her.

She had no time to scream before she was engulfed.

The cannon fired. The trumpets rang out.

Neon was curled up into a ball of pure, unrelenting agony upon the highest peak of the mountain. He didn't make any response to himself being declared as a victor nor to the hovercraft that descended from above to collect him for the long ride home.

He just cowered and cried like a little boy.

Long enough, in fact, that two of the crew from the hovercraft had to descend and physically carry the absolutely broken mess of a victor onto the hovercraft. He was in no shape to do it himself.

Mainly as he was screaming and wailing from the instant he realised the pair who had taken hold of him were women.

* * *

In spite of his age and the fact his opponent was at least three decades younger Duke had gained a swift upper hand.

Perhaps due to the fact the kidnapper was morbidly obese. Perhaps due to their childish mentality. Perhaps because Duke had experience in fighting to the death.

Whatever the reason, Duke was upon the man and landed a few hard punches to his face. In moments the kidnapper's nose was bleeding and his forehead had a raw bruise.

"Get off me!" the kidnapper shrieked. "You're ruining the Games!"

"I'm ruining them? You kidnapped a bunch of kids you fucking psycho!" Duke roared. "You killed them!"

The brawl continued without further talking. It was only a few moments before the kidnapper rolled to the side, enough for himself and Duke to fall down below. Duke was knocked into a stupor by landing on the junk while the kidnapper wheezed against the cold, dirty ground.

"Oh fuck… the pain…" the kidnapper spat out bile, continuing to wheeze.

He staggered to his feet, fumbling with his gun. Seeing that it had a few rounds still loaded he pointed it towards Duke, the victor having now lost his peacekeeper helmet in all of the chaos.

"You were always the worst victor," the kidnapper muttered, pouting.

The shot misfired by far, mainly because Pliny had tackled the kidnapper and tried to wrestle the gun out of his hands. Alas, even with her getting on in years she was still rather tiny and was therefore easy for the kidnapper to hurl to the ground.

Pliny gazed up at her wheezing captor as he struggled to breath from an inhaler.

"Why?" Pliny whispered, for once sounding wide awake. "Why are you doing this?"

Pliny began to weakly sob.

"Why? All this death, all this pain… why?!"

"…I just wanted my own Hunger Games. One a year isn't enough," the kidnapper said, sounding almost confused. "Just a bit of fun."

"Fun?!" Pliny screeched. "People died! Real people, innocent people with feelings and people who loved them… they're dead!"

Pliny wept.

"You killed Vercingetorix, you sick freak," Pliny choked out.

"I'm not a freak! I'm Ajax!" the kidnapper huffed. "I'm your biggest fan! Why else do you think I'd bring you here for this opportunity?"

Pliny stared, unable to form any words at all.

"You were always my favourite victor. So cute, so goofy… you made winning look so easy," Ajax continued, his tone soft. "I've watched all of your interviews. Attended all public appearances you've made since I was old enough. You've always been everything to me. But… you never got a chance to show what you were made of in the arena."

Ajax gestured to the bloodbath and the corpses.

"This was all for you. A chance to prove, once and for all, you're the strongest of them all. Strong enough to win a serious fight. Strong enough to win not one, but _two_ Hunger Games!" Ajax exclaimed, giggling to himself. "Nobody would be able to doubt that you're the best victor of them all. I thought you'd love it."

Pliny only stared at Ajax in horror.

"…You murdered children. You killed my friend. You… you bastard!" Pliny screeched, trying to stand back up. A swift punch sent her reeling backwards where she collapsed into a pile of pizza boxes.

"The best victor ever… given the most grand of chances… you don't want to be a double victor…?" Ajax began to snarl, his fat face turning a shade of red. "Fine, you can be just another cannon! Boom! I guess one of the other kids can be the victor then."

Ajax paused again to use his inhaler, aiming his gun right towards Pliny. The short women lay in terror of the weapon point right towards her while her self-proclaimed biggest fan wheezed and sulked.

Neither noticed Duke getting back up from where he'd been knocked prior. He looked afraid.

"No," he whispered.

Duke stood up. He looked cautious.

"No, no, no."

Duke, pickaxe in hand, made a final sprint towards Ajax as the obese maniac put his inhaler away. He looked almost at peace with himself.

"No, no, no!"

"Boom!" Ajax yelled, bitterness in his eyes. "Years of effort wasted!"

A bang filled the area. A horrible splatter followed it not even a second afterwards.

Ajax fell to the ground with a pickaxe buried into his neck, blood showering out from the ghastly wound and rapidly staining his rags. He was dead before he hit the dirt.

Duke fell to the ground, the light in his eyes already starting to fade from the gunshot he'd taken so that Pliny would not have to.

"DUKE!"

Pliny scrambled over to her fallen friend, trying her hardest to stop the blood that flowed from the wound. Duke tried to reach up to put a hand on her shoulder, only to fail due to lacking the energy to even manage that.

Pliny met him halfway, gently holding his hand for him. For a few moments there was nothing beside her soft sniffling and Duke's slow, pained breathing.

"Oh Duke… why?" Pliny whispered.

"I… couldn't let you die…" Duke replied, his face going pale. "Knew I had to do it. Don't… regret it…"

"Please don't leave me," Pliny sobbed. "Please…"

"You're not alone… you have… other victors…" Duke coughed, a few specks of blood coming out from within.

"…But I won't have you," Pliny replied. "…You've always been there for me…"

"…And you with me…" Duke lay himself back, unable to muster the power to even sit up. "…Heh… guess I did save somebody… after all… maybe I was worth something…"

"You're not dying! You hear me? You're not!" Pliny continued to try compressing the wound. "You were always worth something, you were worth more than gold! …You were my friend…!"

Pliny broke, unable to hold her tears back as Duke began to fade away into the nether. He squeezed her hand one more time.

"Cover for me…" he whispered.

"District Twelve will have a victor… I promise," Pliny vowed, hardly able to see past her own tears.

As the victors had been speaking a pair of the surviving children had come out of hiding. Many stayed away, heading out deeper into the wastelands, but the twins approached the dying victor.

Castor and Pollux made it clear how thankful they were for Duke saving them.

They stayed with Pliny as she wept beside her near-dead best friend. Being surrounded by his best friend and two children he had saved made it so that, when Duke took his last breath a mere two minutes later, he was able to pass with a smile upon his exhausted, ghostly pale face.

It was a long time until Pliny stopped crying. A long time indeed.

* * *

Neon was a shaking wreck throughout the aftermath of his Games, from the moment he awoke within the Capitol up to the moment he was home. His sheer terror and shaking continued for a long, long time afterwards.

The once deviant sexual harasser had been paid back in full by karma. Once lustful towards all women, his experiences in the elemental arena had reduced him to a sobbing wreck with a severe case of gynophobia. The mere sight of a girl anywhere nearby would cause him to panic and run for cover. All he could think of when he saw a girl was the twelve tributes who chased with, threatened him and left him battered and bloody.

Crying helped dull the pain. Drinking helped it so much more. Neon would grow up be even more of an alcoholic than the likes of Chaff and Haymitch as the years went by.

Haymitch lived.

Chaff died in the name of freedom and opposing evil.

Neon was left out of all rebellious plans. He instead died upon the rocky island around the cornucopia within the quell's arena by the trident of a much more successful flirt.

All he'd wanted to do was end the star crossed lovers' romantic bond. Just the sight of Katniss and the thought of the romance she had been part of in the previous Games was enough to send him into a fit of terror.

Girl were scary!

* * *

District Twelve was dealt the worst defeat they'd ever experienced. Normally they only lost two tributes, a bad loss for certain, but this year their mentor didn't come back either.

Not outside of a casket anyway.

The official story of the Capitol was that he'd slipped in the shower and broken his neck. They'd been sure to clear up the evidence really fast and eliminate most of the remaining children. The blame, of course, had been put onto some made-up district criminal. The capitol citizens bought it ever so easily. They hadn't known some deranged fanboy had kidnapped their children nor how he'd worn a stolen, oversized peacekeeper outfit to convince the naïve kids to trust him and therefore follow him.

Vercingetorix's death had been explained away as much the same, only it had been added on that it was a maniac from Six that had done the vile deed. Olga wasn't sure how to feel in response to this, but nonetheless vowed to keep Two strong, keep Six from winning… and privately wondered how the wise Capitol had allowed this tragedy to happen. She continued to puzzle over this throughout Vercingetorix's grand funeral.

Pliny knew the truth. The twins, Castor and Pollux, also knew the truth. Mizar claimed he knew of a safe place they could hide until the heat died down and it'd be safe for them to start living in the Capitol once again.

With nobody else coming alongside her Pliny had returned to Twelve in Duke's place, wanting to be there when the funeral happened and her old friend was laid to rest.

Snow saw no reason to stop this. He'd long thought of the sleepy victor as the most useless of all forty eight – though he'd admit that the newest victor was close to snatching the title for himself – so saw little harm in allowing this.

While Snow prepared for the looming quarter quell Pliny stood within the tribute graveyard of District Twelve.

It was filled with the aura of the dead. With Duke's passing every single tribute from Twelve, all ninety six of them, were now buried within this graveyard.

Rain fell, but Pliny still didn't move from her silent vigil beside Duke's grave. Nobody had come to get her, so she saw no reason to leave just yet.

She'd already made sure to tell the people of Twelve the real story of what happened anyway.

"I'll miss you," Pliny said, yawning softly. "We'll see each other again… but not yet. Not yet. …I'll cover for you in the meantime. The Capitol say Twelve gets no mentor… well fine. _**I'll**_ be their mentor. One of them _**will**_ win the Games."

Pliny knelt beside the grave, peering at the words written upon it.

 _Here lies Duke Saint-Rose._

 _3/5/11BDD - 11/7/48ADD_

 _Victor of the 6_ _th_ _Annual Hunger Games._

 _0 tributes mentored towards victory._

 _The odds were not in his favour._

"I can do better," Pliny said, taking out a hand sized pickaxe.

Pliny soon walked out of the graveyard, huddling her coat over herself. She left behind a new addition to the gravestone, carved by the small pickaxe.

 _1 Victor saved from murder through bravery, tenacity and sheer heroism._

 _He was my friend._

 _\- Pliny Aransio_

* * *

"Rest in peace," Katniss said, starting to walk ahead.

Peeta wasn't sure if Katniss was referring to Neon, Duke or both of them. He settled for staying silent and simply following his girlfriend down the street. He fell even more silent when he saw whose face was the next one imprinted into the sidewalk.

A bald young man gazed back up at them, nothing but fierceness and coldness filling his eyes. He lacked much in the way of features outside of his eyes, but they told more stories of war and violence than many books surely did.

"Brutus," Peeta muttered, an uneasy look in his eyes.

Katniss laid a supportive hand upon Peeta's shoulder.

* * *

And there we are, two stories for the price of one! The grim, if darkly comical, tale of the man from Five and the explanation of what became of Twelve's first ever victor. Neon's story honestly just came to me on a fairly silly whim, 'imagine a creep being chased by girls holding swords' and that turned into the story we saw unfold. Duke's tale, meanwhile, is my own answer for a long lasting unanswered canon question. What ever did end up happening to the Twelve winner who triumphed before Haymitch did? In this case, dying to save somebody he cared about. In the end Duke succeeded at what he'd tried at for so long… saving somebody. Hope you guys enjoyed reading the tales in this chapter. But now we look ahead to next chapter… Brutus, a career so powerful and bloodthirsty that he 'couldn't wait to get back in the arena'. What may his story be once we look a little deeper…?

* * *

 **Stats**

 **District 1:** Peridot Gaudy (8th Games), Crystal McCree (14th Games), Bronze Marley (19th Games), Crown Martins (24th Games), Dollar Dettwieller (32nd Games), Mascara Court (41st Games), Platinum Twist (44th Games)

 **District 2:** Baron Overwhill (4th Games), Runa Peace (7th Games), Olga Machete (10th Games), Rook Valiant (17th Games), Boulder Atherston (20th Games), Vercingetorix Carnby (25th Games), Dragon Batofel (27th Games), Rhyder Overwhill (39th Games), Mercy Gregor (46th Games)

 **District 3:** Honorius Perthshire (5th Games), Pi Orbit (22nd Games), Beetee Latier (37th Games), Wiress Plummer (47th Games)

 **District 4:** Museida Selkirk (3rd Games), Mags Flanagan (11th Games), Tide Luther (23rd Games), Librae Ogilvy (35th Games)

 **District 5:** Shunt Gaspar (12th Games), Isobel Sparks (18th Games), Crimson Flanders (29th Games), Porter Tripp (38th Games), Neon Erg (48th Games)

 **District 6:** Chassis Macalister (31st Games)

 **District 7:** Pliny Aransio (2nd Games), Fir Buzz (9th Games), Jack Tylos (21st Games), Snag Nakamura (34th Games)

 **District 8:** Woof Casino (16th Games), Paige Murphy (30th Games), Spool Nylon (42nd Games)

 **District 9:** Mizar Aldjoy (1st Games), Gwenith Rosebud (13th Games), Teff Withers (28th Games), Laurel Flamsteel (36th Games), Tabbock Summers (43rd Games)

 **District 10:** Stallion March (26th Games), Lammy Phyronix (40th Games)

 **District 11:** Bear Redfoot (15th Games), Seeder Howell (33rd Games), Chaff Mitchell (45th Games)

 **District 12:** Duke Saint-Rose (6th Games)


	50. Brutus Gunn

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Hunger Games. They belong to Suzanne Collins.

 **Note:** From one canon victor to another, let's give it up for Brutus! With a name like that and the fact he was eager to be in the arena a second time all the signs suggest a bloodthirsty tribute nobody would want to mess with. But is that really true? Well… yes, lol, yes it is. But perhaps there's more to Brutus than the, let's be real, not-exactly-ideal-screentime canon gave us would suggest? Let's see what my crazy brain cooked up this time~.

* * *

"They say he was the ultimate career," Peeta said, gazing at Brutus' face upon the sidewalk. "Or at least one of the absolute strongest tributes who ever got out of the arena with his life."

"And yet you were able to beat him," Katniss noted, slightly awed. "That makes you the strongest, doesn't it? I mean, you beat the strongest so-."

"Don't compliment me. Not for… that," Peeta took a few moments to deeply breathe in and out. "It was strange. He wasn't fighting like he was early on… he seemed erratic. Something was different."

"…Poison?" Katniss guessed.

"I have no idea," Peeta replied.

The pair were silent for a few long, morbid moments.

"The worst thing is he seemed pretty approachable and chill in the training centre," Peeta said, distant. "I never, not for a moment, thought I'd end up… killing him."

"…I never thought I'd kill Gloss," Katniss replied. "Nor anybody."

The pair went silent.

* * *

 **49** **th** **Annual Hunger Games**

 **Name:** Brutus Gunn

 **Gender:** Male

 **District:** 2

 **Age:** 18

 **Kills:** 11

* * *

 **Nine Victors from Two and a Time Brutus Made Each Of Them Happy**

 **(And one time he pissed President Snow off…)**

* * *

 **MERCY**

The time that followed that Forty Eighth Hunger Games was hardly pleasant for many. Not for Twelve. Not for Eleven nor Ten either. Not even for the winning District, what with how Five detested Neon and accused the gamemakers of outright rigging it into his favour.

District Two were a nasty blend of furious and miserable. They never enjoyed losing, but this had been their most awful loss in many years. Even moreso than the year Chassis had won the Games, and accidently killed Boris and Boudicca, in under six hours.

This time they'd lost both of their tributes and one of their precious victors as well. Not just any victor, but it was their quell winner. One who'd won a Games like no other.

Olga was sour from the defeat and the terrible events she couldn't understand how the Capitol had failed to prevent. She dealt with it the best way she knew how; slashing up dummies made to resemble Chassis and working the cadets for next year's Hunger Games even harder than she already did.

Mercy was simply depressed. She knew they hadn't gotten the full story, something Olga was blind to, but had no means to acquire the truth. All she knew was that she'd lost her friend who shared her view of how awful the Games were, had little to no status within Two for how she worked with a tribute from Six and wished she never volunteered.

Rhyder was there for her, of course, but recently he'd been kept incredibly busy with taking cadets on cross country runs and climbing trips. All unwilling, all forced.

All this was why, two weeks before the reaping for the Forty Ninth Hunger Games, Mercy was sitting on the stone steps at the front of the main building that made up Machete Ridge. She sighed, miserable. Nobody was ever around at this time of night.

It was exactly as she'd wanted it.

"What really happened to you?" Mercy asked, gazing skywards. "I miss you Verci…"

"You don't look yourself, Miss Gregor. What's wrong?"

Mercy glanced beside her as one of the cadets of Machete Ridge sat down beside her. It only took a moment to know who this boy was. His muscles, reputation and signature bald head made it hard to mistake Brutus Gunn, the top ranked volunteer in line for the boys, for anybody else.

"Oh, hi Brutus," Mercy said. Despite only being three years older than Brutus the gap truthfully felt like much more. "Just thinking…"

"About what?" Brutus asked.

"…Just stuff," Mercy replied, glancing off to the side. "Why do you ask?"

"You victors are heroes. Proof our district is doing things right. Doing its duty," Brutus replies, like he were talking about the weather. "If you're feeling upset, it's my duty to find out why and see if I might be able to help."

The Games will turn Brutus into a killer just like the rest of them, assuming he's not already just like one, is what Mercy thought. Mercy rather hoped Brutus wouldn't stop being a gentleman when the gong went off and he killed some poor miner from Twelve or a druggie from Six.

"I'm fine, really," Mercy insisted.

"You're lying," Brutus noted. "My dad's a peacekeeper, Miss Gregor. He's taught me all the tells of somebody who is lying."

"…Ok, fine, I'm upset," Mercy gestured to the land beyond Machete Ridge and the direction of the far away tribute graveyard. "I was thinking about Vercingetorix."

"Tragic, that was," Brutus snorted, disgusted. "What happened to him was nothing short of demonic. It was wrong. The Capitol, for the first and only time, really let us down."

"Sssshh! People might hear you!" Mercy glanced around, like she expected peacekeepers or Olga herself to show up. "You could get yourself expelled, or worse. I appreciate your words, but my happiness isn't worth-."

"It is," Brutus said, confident. "You're a victor. A shining beacon for all of us to admire and learn from. You showed us a new way to get the job done, one I'd not considered before. I think I can risk my standing to help you feel better."

Brutus let out a rather deep sounding chuckle.

"Besides, my reaction times are pretty good. I could easily volunteer first even if Olga took my slot away," Brutus let out another boyish snicker. "Nobody tells me 'no'. Not even the strongest victor we've got."

"But... you respect her, right?" Mercy asked.

"More than anybody," Brutus replied, practically beaming. "…Doesn't mean I have to always listen."

The pair sat together in silence for a short while. Brutus was content to just sit and watch fireflies that saw fit to fly around the pair. Mercy, meanwhile, considered what her next words would be. She was starting to like the new male tribute.

"You know Brutus… you're not a bad guy. Thanks for just, you know, sitting with me," Mercy said, faintly smiling. "It helps."

"It's my sworn duty," Brutus replied, saluting. "Can't be having a women cry, least of all a victor."

"My, my, aren't you a gentleman," Mercy noted, smirking. "…I feel like we did not get the full truth of what happened to Vercingetorix."

"Maybe not. But what can we do?" Brutus asked, shrugging. "I mean, besides live. Winning means a lifetime of status, peace and dreams coming true. Vercingetorix had that taken away from him. After he fought so hard in that garbage dump… it's a disgrace. We're still here… in his name, let's live life to the fullest."

"How do you plan to do that?" Mercy asked, curious.

"Becoming a victor as well and being the total life of the party," Brutus replied, grinning widely. "And, you know, maybe growing in some hair. We'll see how wild I feel."

Mercy couldn't stop herself from laughing. Brutus' smirk only seemed to widen further.

"There's what I like to see, a laughing victor. Nailed it!" Brutus cheered, or rather yelled.

"I hope you make it back, I really do," Mercy said, trying to reign back her laughter.

"I plan to, don't worry about it. A plan of mine has never gone wrong," Brutus said, brimming with confidence. "So, what'll you do? I mean, how will you live life… in our fallen friend's name?"

"I'm not sure, exactly… but I'll live it well. That's a promise," Mercy vowed. "I'll certainly do my best to help the children of Two."

"I'd say you already have," Brutus replied, getting up to leave.

"How so?" Mercy replied.

Brutus gave her one last look before he left for the dorms. A rare look of genuine gratitude.

"The girl you volunteered for was my little sister," was all he said.

* * *

 **BARON**

It had been a lovely night out for Baron and his beloved wife. A quiet outing to their favourite restaurant they'd attended together ever since their first date decades ago. Even after all this time they never tired even a little of the food served at The Sacred Stone.

They never tired of each other either. Some people seemed just made for each other. Many a passer-by would claim that Baron and Runa were so obvious about being in love that they didn't even have to make it remotely clear at all.

"So, how's the birthday boy feeling?" Runa asked, smiling fondly.

"Pretty good, pretty good," Baron replied, content. "Good food, great entertainment, perfect wife… really, what could make this day any better?"

"A bit of peace and quiet?" Runa suggested, chuckling.

"After all these years we might get some. Rhyder said he and the other victors are going bowling or something. We'll have the village to ourselves," Baron said, a smirk on his face. "You know what that means for us, dear?"

"Oh, I think I do," Runa said, her expression matching that of her husband. "Nobody to bother us when we play video games."

"Right you are. Super Smash Victors all night?" Baron suggested, laughing softly.

"Of course," Runa agreed. "First one home gets to play as Chassis!"

And so the race began. The elderly pair lacked the energy they'd had back in their younger years, a fact made clear by how their running was less of a sonic speed dash and more of a brisk walk, but the laughter shared made it seem as though no time had gone by at all.

The pair eventually had to slow down to a walk to keep their breath from truly leaving them. They entered the village side by side and approached the front door of their shared mansion-esque home. Right before reaching the door Runa lunged forwards and tapped the doorknob.

"Hey!" Baron complained playfully. "That was cheap!"

"No, dear. That was me earning the right to play as Chassis," Runa replied, sticking her tongue out.

"So immature. I thought you were sixty seven?" Baron replied, taking out the house keys.

"You're only ever as young as you feel," Runa replied, smiling.

The lock clicked and the door was swiftly open. Baron had to pause for a brief moment, glancing sideways at his wife.

"Was our house always this dark when the lights are off?" Baron asked.

Runa shrugged, unsure. Baron reached for the light switch, casually flicking it into the on position.

"SURPRISE!"

Baron had no time to reflexively assume a battle stance or swear in shock. Several of the other victors and the cadets from the academy had leapt into view, banners hung up saying 'Happy Birthday Baron' and related things. Rhyder beamed at his parents, having been one of two masterminds behind the surprise party for his beloved dad.

The other was Brutus and he'd already managed to screw it up. What was meant to be a dramatic slide down the bannisters, a double front flip and holding out a cake for Two's legend of a first victor (Brutis insisted he'd done this trick four times for his own father) had gone slightly wrong.

Mainly as Brutus fell off the banister, landed in a heap and went face first into the cake.

"…Blub…" was all he was able to say, spitting a piece of cake out.

Baron practically howled with laughter, doubling over and wiping away a tear of complete, utter mirth. The party started in earnest after that, Baron remarking that he expected Brutus to do that again next year.

It was meant as a joke and yet Brutus did it ten years in a row. Baron never stopped finding it funny.

* * *

 **DRAGON**

Dragon tended to find the bloodbath to be the most exciting part of any Hunger Games and would never, under any circumstances, miss the opening free for all by the silver horn of plenty.

He claimed even a visit from the grim reaper would not stop him. The skeleton with the scythe would have to shut up and wait until the cannons fired.

This year he was on mentor duty alongside Olga and, as Olga had laid claim to Brutus from the very start, it left Dragon to mentor the female tribute, a top scoring Machete Ridge graduate by the name of Xoey. A formidable enough girl, Dragon figured.

He'd see if he was right to believe so once the countdown came to an end. He knew this year was going to be a real mess.

Mainly due to all the mud. The arena was basically a mudland that spread out over eight square miles, the only other notable terrain aside the tons and tons of mud being boulders, occasional mossy growths and the cornucopia itself.

As he always did Dragon let out an excited holler as the gong rang. He could hardly contain his glee as the tributes made the charge for the cornucopia, Brutus easily leading the way. The mud was simply unable to slow him down.

"Go! Go! Go!" Dragon cheered, fist pumping. "Kick some ass!"

"Be professional," Olga muttered, her gaze firmly upon the screen.

"Why? We can't do anything to help them until the cannons fire. No sponsors allowed yet," Dragon replied, watching as Brutus grabbed hold of a large war hammer.

Dragon was left in complete awe as he watched Brutus going right to work with his new weapon. Sure, the Ones and the girl from Four were careers too and had no issues starting to attack the weaker outliers who scrambled through the mud in search of supplies, but Brutus was something else entirely.

He was a killing machine!

Districts Eleven and Nine were both effortlessly eliminated by him before the first minute was over. All it took was a sweep kick to down the Nines and then bringing down the hammer to their skulls. It was much the same for the Elevens.

"Yeah! Go Brutus!" Dragon whooped, ignoring Gwenith's sobbing, Mizar's weary sigh, Bear's growl and Seeder's no doubt cold glare sent to the back of his head. "Aw snap, duck!"

Brutus waited until the last moment to duck the stab of the boy from Five, a small kid who'd tried to kill Brutus with an axe. By then the boy was too close to back away as Brutus whirled around and smashed him apart with hid heavy hammer.

Dragon was so entranced by the ferocious effort put on by Brutus that he missed the moment where the girl from Six managed to cut Xoey's arm and splatter blood into the wound. The mechanic was killed only a moment later, but the damage had been done. The mud had entered Xoey's bloodstream.

Dragon didn't notice that. He was too entranced by the way Brutus had forced the boy from Twelve to his knees and, ignoring the boy's screams, swung the war hammer like a baseball bat and sent the miner's head flying over three hundred yards to the north. The cannons fired as the head hit the mud.

"Home run!" Dragon cheered, applauding loudly. "Best bloodbath ever!"

Thirteen cannons fired, six of them caused by Brutus. Dragon watched the careers start to sort their supplies and wipe the mud off of themselves. He'd not felt this happy after watching a bloodbath in years!

* * *

 **RHYDER**

It was a situation like none before it. A Hunger Games with only the victors taking part within it. Some, like Mercy, were at least glad that all the little kids were spared for this one year. Others, like Rook, saw the whole thing as a complete farce and a personal betrayal.

Dragon was just annoyed that due to recently breaking his leg he would be unable to volunteer for it. He was not _**that**_ suicidal.

Brutus stood without any notable feelings being expression. He was seemingly completely stoic, his arms firmly crossed and his stance incredibly strong. He gave off no sort of fear, not for a moment.

What was there to fear? He'd made his choice about this almost as soon as the twist had been revealed months ago.

"Not me, not me…" Rhyder whispered from his spot beside Brutus. "Not again…"

Brutus leaned slightly closer to his best friend, lightly nudging his shoulder in an attempt to be comforting. It was a strnage sort of bond they had; Rhyder was older, but for all intends and purposes was the younger in their brotherly bond. Brutus was just that formidable and, well, seriously bulky.

"You'll be fine," Brutus assured him. "They'll probably just pick somebody more recent. Maybe Magnus?"

Brutus felt confident that he was correct. Realistically, why would they pick Rhyder? He'd been out of the spotlight for years. It was all about the younger victors now… though Brutus would admit to feeling annoyed there'd been a fair drought of victors recently. Cato had been _so close_.

He figured he could make it two ranks further once again if his name got pulled. Whatever happened, it wouldn't be Rhyder going into the arena.

"Rhyder Overwhill!"

' _Aw fuck.'_

Rhyder started to walk towards the stage, balling his fists. He breathed deeply and controlled, likely already running over various plans in his head for how he might survive. Being the son of the victor who, if perhaps by accident, started career tributes being a thing didn't endear him to many outliers, whether tribute or victor.

Especially victor these days. He'd have a very tough time evading a nasty death. Or, he would have, had Brutus not already known what he was going to do if any of the other men were reaped.

"I volunteer!" Brutus yelled, pounding his chest for effect.

The crowd went absolutely wild as Brutus marched towards the stage with almost a spring in his step. He wasn't remotely scared and it showed. All the nation would see was a confident man ready for glory and honourable combat.

Brutus didn't give a shit about all that. He just gave Rhyder a friendly nod. One look at his stunned silence of relief confirmed to him he'd made the correct decision.

In the judgement building all of the victors came to see him off, Rhyder being the last one. No sooner had the doors closed Rhyder took Brutus into a bear hug.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you," Rhyder whispered.

He then dope slapped Brutus. The burly victor-turned-tribute hardly seemed to even notice this.

"What were you thinking?" Rhyder asked, his voice very light. "Brutus, this isn't 'child's play' anymore. This is the best of the best. You could seriously…"

"Break Pasture's kill record once and for all? Be the ultimate victor of victors? Yeah, I could," Brutus cracked his knuckles loudly. "They should be the ones getting worried, Rhy."

Rhyder stared, starting to look torn between confusion and horror.

"That's what I'll say anyway. They know how loyal I am, but I doubt I'll be able to put more than a toe out of line before I'm on the same level as the Everdeen girl," Brutus paused to shoot Rhyder a smirk. "You didn't believe that, right? Of course I was gonna volunteer for you. For any of you; I'm the one most likely to make it back, we all know it."

"Can't argue that," Rhyder agreed. "Just be careful Brutus. I don't want you dying."

"I'm pretty sure I won't. But if I do, just be a favour. Live life as well as you can," Brutus gestured to the window with his head. "Plenty of women out in that world. Not too late to settle with one of them."

"You're such a… I don't even know," Rhyder said, starting to laugh.

The pair shared a bro-hug in the short while they had before it was time to board the tribute train. Only them and One were even permitted family goodbyes; the rest were just getting forced to the trains right away. The pair made the time count, making plans for the Games, ideas for alliances and Brutus even agreed, if a little begrudgingly, to play nice with the Twelves in training. It was never bad to not be at the top of somebody's killing list.

Brutus was as loyal to the Capitol as Rhyder was the opposite. But it wouldn't stop them being best mates.

Even Brutus' death at Peeta's hands after his weakening via a poisoned cleat less than two weeks later wouldn't stop them being best mates.

* * *

 **BOULDER**

Boulder could only grumble. This always happened after a party was held in his house, always. He never saw who was actually doing it, only that he knew they'd been doing this for years now.

They'd put his stuff on the highest shelves he never normally used. Mainly as he couldn't reach them.

"Come on, come on!" Boulder tried to jump up, climb up and even throw a book to knock the shelf down. Alas, nothing worked. "Fucking dammit!"

Boulder kicked the wall in irritation. This, too, accomplished absolutely nothing.

It did, however, get Brutus' attention as he walked by outside Boulder's house.

"Yo, you ok Boulder?" Brutus asked, sticking his head through the window.

"Oh hey Brutus. Yeah, I'm fine really. Just kinda annoyed," Boulder paused to gesture to the shelf above him. "I threw a party for a few pals last night and they put something of mine up there. I can't reach it."

Brutus smirked, seeing a chance to be useful. Before Boulder had a chance to react Brutus had climbed through his window, almost getting stuck in the process.

"There was a door," Boulder said, flatly.

"Waste of time when you have a perfectly good window," Brutus replied, shrugging. "Anyway, you're in luck. I'm an expert at being tall."

Boulder just gave Brutus a flat sort of expression. Brutus snickered, reaching for the object on the high shelf that Boulder had wanted.

"Here you go… hey, wait a minute," Brutus looked at the object in wonder. "…Is this a Gameboy? Holy shit Boulder, I thought these all got broken in the Dark Days!"

"All besides mine," Boulder replied, smirking. "Found it down the quarry mines I worked in as a teenager. No idea how it got there, but I smuggled it out and claimed ownership."

"Does it still work?" Brutus asked, awed.

"Does a fish swim?" Boulder stated. "Sure it does, turn it on."

Brutus did so, watching in amazement as the ancient screen flickered into life and displayed a rather old sort of game. For a moment it seemed the 'Mudman of the 49th' was speechless, mesmerised by the sight.

"…Can I play on this?" Brutus asked.

"Sure, so long as you don't mind me rambling on about all the trivia and facts," Boulder said, sitting down beside Brutus on the sofa. "C'mon, start the game!"

"Yes sir!" Brutus said, saluting and laughing.

Tetris had begun.

* * *

 **RUNA**

Runa sat quietly in one of the graveyards of District Two. It wasn't the tribute graveyard, not this time. It wouldn't be time to lay down new flowers until the end of the week.

Rather, it was a distant graveyard just outside of Town 395. The old, mostly dormant town where she'd lived much of her life before she'd ever been reaped for the Hunger Games, or indeed lived before the Hunger Games had ever been instated.

She remembered her grandpa's wisdom of counting her blessings. Being able to recall a time, however vague, before this sick yearly deathmatch was one of them.

Mostly though she just remembered her grandpa. He'd died quite a long time ago, having been in his eighties at the time of her own Games. Even all these years later, even when Runa was getting into old age and had her own family… it hurt.

It was why, after silently paying her respects for an hour or so, she couldn't keep herself from sobbing. She always was a bit of an emotional one, so people said.

"Runa, are you alright?" a voice asked.

Runa turned, stumped to see Brutus approaching her. Runa had no idea where Brutus had come from, only that he'd seen her cry. She never liked showing her face when tears fell down it.

"I'm fine," Runa said, glancing sideways.

"You're not," Brutus replied, kneeling beside Runa. "You seemed 'off' last night too. What's wrong?"

Runa silently gestured to the gravestone. One glance told Brutus everything that he needed to know.

 _Here lies Ripford Peace._

 _He loved to laugh._

 _He loved to give advice._

 _His advice saved my life._

 _He was my Grandpa._

 _\- Runa_

"Sounds like he was a good man," Brutus noted, seemingly unsure of what to say.

"He was," Runa replied. "There was never a man quite like him. It's been decades, I should be over it… I'm not. Not really."

"That's normal. You cared about him. Same with me and my Grandma, now there was a powerful women," Brutus smiled to himself, nostalgic. "Anything I can do to help?"

"Well for one thing… why are you here Brutus?" Runa paused to wipe away a few fresh tears. "How'd you find me?"

"…I'll own it, I was out here because I heard rumour Bigfoot was lurking in this town," Brutus admitted.

Runa paused, staring in pure confusion.

"Hey, a victor needs to have a talent. Mine's trying to catch Bigfoot," Brutus said, shrugging. "Anyway, as I said, any way I can help?"

"Well… I guess just talking would be nice," Runa took a deep breath. "Normally Baron and Rhyder come with me for this. But Baron's sick and Rhyder's caring for him. Guess handling this alone is harder than I thought."

"You're not alone, you've got me. I'm pretty hard to miss," Brutus lightly chuckled to himself. "Two hundred and fifty pounds of muscle is pretty obvious."

"Well, you're not wrong," Runa agreed.

"Say… since I never really knew anything about your grandpa, maybe you could… tell me about him?" Brutus suggested. "Like, all I know is he gave you some good advice that's helped you for decades. What did he say?"

Runa smiled, flattered that Brutus was showing a genuine interest in the man who raised her so very long ago.

"Well, a lot of ties into the time before and during my own Games, so I hope you're ready for a long story," Runa replied, her smile becoming a lot easier to hold.

"Born ready," Brutus boasted.

"Well in that case… the first bit of advice he gave me was to count my blessings," Runa began. "When I was a little girl I was the only one amongst my sisters who'd not ended up on the wrong sideof a dark days warhead. All I had was a shack, a well for water, a few blankets and my grandpa. I always said I'd kill if it meant keeping all of it safe."

And so the story went on for over an hour. Brutus only became more enraptured and amazed as time went by. Runa's tears ceased falling after only ten minutes.

* * *

 **ROOK**

If there was one thing Rook hated about the Capitol it had to be the citizens being so fucking _annoying_. He could handle the brutal regime, he could handle mentoring dead kids walking on the extremely rare chance he was ever allowed to do so, he could handle the way they treated outlying districts, he could even handle the rather blatant and cruel executions. In fact, he could even handle being in the Hunger Games – he had, after all, won them.

The issue was that, even after so long, his fame was not drying up. Dragon would call him a madman for wanting to just be left alone, but Rook did not feel Dragon counted. He was nuts!

The point was every time Rook came to the Capitol for whatever reason he'd be flocked by Capitol citizens clamouring for his autograph, a selfie or a lock of his hair. Apparently being the first career to win after deliberately turning against the pack from the get-go made him a novelty that'd always be beloved.

He assumed Olga was laughing at him, calling it karma or some shit. Karma for what, Rook had no idea.

It was half past one in the afternoon, around a month before the reaping of the fifty eighth games - a Games that'd hopefully be better than the disastrous frozen Games that had preceded it – when the crowds found him.

All he'd wanted was a pack of peanuts and to be left alone!

For ten minutes it was just high pitched chatter, excited squeals and Rook not getting in a word edgeways, sideways or anyways at all. It seemed like his temper would swiftly be lost and his day ever so ruined.

Brutus had other plans.

"Hey gang! Who wants a picture with me?" Brutus called as he walked down the street. "C'mon, you can sit on my shoulders!"

That was all it took for the crowd to instantly leave Rook and swarm towards Brutus. The 'mudman' just laughed, enjoying the attention as he readied himself for some serious photo taking.

He gave Rook a wink and gestured for him to make a run for it.

"I owe you a drink!" Rook called as he jogged away and rounded a corner, beelining for the nearest motel to book a room to hide in.

Rook decided 'screw it' and figured he owed Brutus not one, but _five_ drinks at least!

* * *

 **OLGA**

By the time the last outlier was dead by the blade of the boy from One it had been twelve days since the Games had begun. All that remained was the career pack. Both from One, the girl from Four and Brutus himself.

Brutus felt a brief flicker of loss as he glanced at the corpse of the girl from Seven, upset that Xoey had fallen by the 5th day and failed to see this moment. The infection from her wound had simply been impossible to fix. Nothing could've been done for her.

The next thing he felt was a blade barely missing his neck, only his excellent reflexes saving his life. Brutus leapt away, clutching his war hammer and a cold look in his eyes.

The look of a killer.

"Strongest dies so the rest can stand a better chance, you know how it goes," the boy from One said. "Ready guys?"

The girl from One and girl from Four gripped their swords tightly, clearly ready for the battle to begin and to claim themselves a life of fame, fortune and everlasting glory.

Three on one was incredibly unfair.

It was unfair for _**them**_. It would've taken a lot more than three people to take down Brutus down now that he was paying full attention to them.

He parried the boy from One's katana with ease, smashing his ribcage horrible with a follow-up hammer strike. The boy was dead before he could even sob in pain.

The girls glanced at each other and nodded. They charged from both sides, ready to murder the powerful boy and being wary of the common cliché of accidently impaling each other.

They needn't have considered that. Brutus just smirked, almost looking amused, and spun on the spot. The slippery mud made it easy for him to whirl around like a tornado for a brief moment, both girls having their heads smashed off of their bodies and sent flying away into mud hundreds of yards away.

The cannon fired and Brutus roared in triumph, holding up his weapon with both hands and shaking it around in glee. Nothing could make the moment any better.

From the mentoring room Olga watched the screen as the hovercraft descended to collect Brutus from the arena.

"You see that?" she told her fellow victors from Two. "That is how you win the Games. Take notes, all of you. He did right what literally all of you did wrong. He was strong, honourable, never showed fear, followed all of the rules and is a credit to District Two."

Olga rose, ignoring the sour looks from the other Twos and various other victors.

"Where are you going?" Boulder asked. "…And hey, what did I do wrong?"

"You got dropkicked like a football. That clip still gets played and I'm personally sick of it," Olga said, rolling her eyes. "As for where I'm going, I'm gonna be opening a fine bottle of champagne I've had ever since my own Games. I've finally mentored somebody to victory whom did not ruin it along the way, so it's time to open the bottle."

Olga left without another word.

* * *

 **VERCINGETORIX**

It was a sunny summer day, the fine weather felt throughout District Two. With the District being the loyal and having the overall best quality of life the residents, and even the peacekeepers, had no issues relaxing and enjoying the day as they saw fit. It was, after all, a rare day off for several of them.

Brutus had more pressing matters to be getting on with than enjoying the summer.

He had somebody who was in need of a visit.

The tribute graveyard was generally intended for tributes who were slain as the decades of the Hunger Games went by. But there was another section to it, a smaller one at that, off towards the back. The place where victors were to be buried.

The place where Vercingetorix had been put to rest.

Brutus laid down flowers, kneeling in respect for the fallen victor of the first quarter quell. For a time he did not say anything.

"Hey Verci. I know we were never exactly 'close', mainly as you departed before I won… but I thought you may be lonely. Figured I'd come and keep you company for a bit," Brutus said, sitting himself down. "Life's been good. Not much for me to really complain about. Last week I won a bodybuilding tournament. Gave those wannabes a real run for their money."

Brutus continued in this way for a while, quickly losing track of the time. He told the grave about the tribute he'd mentored towards victory shortly after the second quell, about Mercy getting engaged, about the new season of hit show Fiona and Lawrence… anything that came to mind.

So much came to mind that by the time Brutus was getting up to leave the afternoon was starting to turn into sunset. Brutus gave the gravestone a last respectful nod.

"Be seeing you Verci. Until we meet again," Brutus saluted and heading for the exit of the tribute graveyard.

A gentle wind blew as Brutus left, scattering dandelion seeds around the graveyard. Some might call it just nature being nature. Others might call it Vercingetorix acknowledging the visit and being happy for it.

Who could say?

* * *

 **SNOW**

As he did every year – and as his predecessor Orion had also done annually – President Snow had to personally crown the victor of each Hunger Games. This year seemed to be a clear step-up from the snivelling pervert from the previous year.

Brutus stood tall, strong and proud. A clear patriot full of honour and no showings of fear nor a desire to rebel for even a moment. He was somebody Snow could easily accept as a victor who'd surely be famous for quite a long time.

"Congratulations," Snow said, placing the crown upon Brutus' bald head. "You fought well. You deserved to win. Good job."

"Thank you Mr President," Brutus said, honoured.

And so, with his head held high and everything in life seeming perfect in that moment, Brutus bowed for the president.

He accidentally headbutted him right in the nose and sent Snow flying backwards to the floor.

Everybody in Panem was silent at that moment. Brutus, Snow, the victors, the peacekeepers, the Capitol citizens, those in the districts forced the watch the mandatory viewing. Everybody.

"Um… my bad?" Brutus said, awkwardly shrugging for the crowd.

Snow got back of, grumbling and scowling. A fresh bruise was plastered across his face.

"Why do I always get the stupid ones," Snow muttered, storming away.

* * *

The pair from Twelve finished their silence for Brutus. With nothing more to say they continued to walk down the street.

"No suspense here," Peeta quietly said. "We both know who's next."

"Who could forget?" Katniss replied. "Haymitch's reputation proceeds him. Same for the smell of beer."

The pair came to the fiftieth face upon the sidewalk. Looking back at them was a sharp faced young man, a look of strength and tenacity in his eyes. His scruffy hair was cut somewhat short and his shallow cheeks gave the impression of a lad no stranger to hunger.

"It's awful enough being against twenty three others. Imagine forty seven," Peeta muttered, revolted. "More careers, more innocents…"

"I try not to think about it," Katniss said, a little queasy. "I try so very hard. Just like Haymitch tries not to."

* * *

So, how was that? I felt that it'd be a bit too easy to just write out Brutus' Games for this one and felt seeing how he acts outside of the arena in his own district would be plenty of fun. A few new sides to him shown and some more screentime for the other victors of Two. Think I did Brutus justice? Let me know in a review, or tell me exactly how I messed it all up. In any case, we've reached the second quarter quell. Our favourite drunken mentor is next… what story may Haymitch have to tell? Stay tuned!

* * *

 **Stats**

 **District 1:** Peridot Gaudy (8th Games), Crystal McCree (14th Games), Bronze Marley (19th Games), Crown Martins (24th Games), Dollar Dettwieller (32nd Games), Mascara Court (41st Games), Platinum Twist (44th Games)

 **District 2:** Baron Overwhill (4th Games), Runa Peace (7th Games), Olga Machete (10th Games), Rook Valiant (17th Games), Boulder Atherston (20th Games), Vercingetorix Carnby (25th Games), Dragon Batofel (27th Games), Rhyder Overwhill (39th Games), Mercy Gregor (46th Games), Brutus Gunn (49th Games)

 **District 3:** Honorius Perthshire (5th Games), Pi Orbit (22nd Games), Beetee Latier (37th Games), Wiress Plummer (47th Games)

 **District 4:** Museida Selkirk (3rd Games), Mags Flanagan (11th Games), Tide Luther (23rd Games), Librae Ogilvy (35th Games)

 **District 5:** Shunt Gaspar (12th Games), Isobel Sparks (18th Games), Crimson Flanders (29th Games), Porter Tripp (38th Games), Neon Erg (48th Games)

 **District 6:** Chassis Macalister (31st Games)

 **District 7:** Pliny Aransio (2nd Games), Fir Buzz (9th Games), Jack Tylos (21st Games), Snag Nakamura (34th Games)

 **District 8:** Woof Casino (16th Games), Paige Murphy (30th Games), Spool Nylon (42nd Games)

 **District 9:** Mizar Aldjoy (1st Games), Gwenith Rosebud (13th Games), Teff Withers (28th Games), Laurel Flamsteel (36th Games), Tabbock Summers (43rd Games)

 **District 10:** Stallion March (26th Games), Lammy Phyronix (40th Games)

 **District 11:** Bear Redfoot (15th Games), Seeder Howell (33rd Games), Chaff Mitchell (45th Games)

 **District 12:** Duke Saint-Rose (6th Games)


	51. Haymitch Abernathy

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Hunger Games. They belong to Suzanne Collins.

 **Note:** It's certainly been a long time coming, but here we are at the second quell. Two thirds of the way through the story and now double the number of tributes. If that ain't a milestone then I have no idea what is. But now, Haymitch's Games! Given we have a lot of knowledge over what happened in this particular year from canon, I figured that it'd be a good chance to switch up the format a bit and do something a bit differently. Hope you'll all enjoy it!

* * *

"It feels like every victor from Twelve won the Games only because they used some kind of trick they weren't really meant to use," Katniss said, gazing at Haymitch's imprinted face. "Our stunt with the berries, Haymitch with the forcefield, Duke creating his own cave to hide in… seems like our district only won by accident."

"I… can't exactly disagree," Peeta admitted. "But so did a lot of other victors. Chassis, Snag, Bentley…"

The pair were silent for a moment, unsure of what else to say.

"Think Haymitch will find his peace one day?" Katniss asked. "Think any of us will?"

Peeta reached to gently hold Katniss' hand.

"I think we've made a good job at taking the first step," Peeta said, softly smiling.

* * *

 **50** **th** **Annual Hunger Games: The 2nd Quarter Quell**

 **Name:** Haymitch Abernathy

 **Gender:** Male

 **District:** 12

 **Age:** 16

 **Kills:** 4

* * *

" _By the time we get to District 12, I'm completely overwhelmed by the sheer number of kids going to certain death_." – Katniss Everdeen.

* * *

The tributes from One felt no fear whatsoever for the morbid, brutal competition that was due to start the next morning. All four of them were vicious and ready to go, practically eager to get on with the killing of the weaker tributes. It had been mutually agreed that they would all work together until they were the last four standing. No early betrayals, no sir.

Not if they wanted to live. Treasure had been able to put together an alliance of twelve tributes and one betrayal would result in the rest of the pack torturing the deserter. It seemed like a foolproof plan.

"We won't run!" Treasure yelled, pacing in front of her district partner.

"We won't run!" the other three chorused.

"We will fight!" Treasure shouted, raising her clenched fist.

"We will fight!" the other three repeated.

"What will do to the other tributes!?" Treasure roared.

"No mercy!" her allies replied.

"No mercy! Only death!" Treasure screeched.

"Death! Death! Death!" the other three parroted.

Treasure nodded, seemingly satisfied. She sat on her own personal armchair, an eerily calm look in her eyes as she turned to watch the show playing on the TV.

"When the pack splits we go for the Twos first. They're our biggest opposition," Treasure stated. "Nobody else comes close to those four."

"That about the fours or the recruits?" one of the boys, Fantastic, asked.

"Only two people from Four in the pack. They don't have the numbers," Treasure stated, shrugging. "Same for the recruits. One from Seven and One from Ten. They're just here to fill space."

"Makes sense. Doesn't really matter who they are if they're only gonna die," Fantastic conceded, shrugging as well.

"Exactly. Us four to the end. Nobody else deserves it. Nobody else has what it takes to get there," Treasure stated, balling her fists.

"What about that boy from Twelve? The older one?" the second boy, Ramesses, added. "He had a look to him."

Fantastic punched Ramesses, snorting. Treasure did the same a mere second later.

"Hey, fuck off!" Ramesses barked.

"No, you fuck off and shut the fuck up!" Treasure snapped. "It's Twelve. Twelve. They had one victor and he got himself killed two years ago. They're being mentored by the lazy lump of the Second Games. A twelve tribute is just a walking corpse, don't forget it."

"Yeah, Treasure's right. Remember how the younger one squealed in training? That was rad," Fantastic said, laughing.

"Still not need to punch me," Ramesses scoffed, particularly irked.

"Oh shut up, worse things can and will happen to you in the arena," Dreamer, the second female, responded. "Now shut up and let me watch TV in peace."

While the four trained murderers sat on the sofa to enjoy a Fiona and Lawrence rerun, their mentors were seated at other parts of the room. Peridot sat at the dinner table, trying to read a new issue of one of her favourite comic book series'. Platinum sat beside her, scratching her head.

"So… she's called the Cat Welder?" Platinum asked, confused.

"Correct," Peridot replied.

"And… she welds cats to bad guys?" Platinum continued.

"Uh huh," Peridot said.

"And this is a hit series? Like, seriously?" Platinum looked incredibly weirded out.

"That's what I've been saying," Peridot replied. "The character development is solid."

"…I'll take your word for it," Platinum said, rising to her feet. "But if it's all the same to you, I'll stick to classic literature."

"Whatever floats your boat," Peridot said, returning her gaze to her comicbook.

Platinum left to fetch a bottle of wine. Peridot watched her go, lightly shaking her head in dismay.

"Pffft, implying comic books aren't classic literature. Hopeless," Peridot muttered, annoyed. "At least our tributes have the best odds this year."

Out on the balcony things weren't going quite so peaceful or calm as the talk between the two female victors. As was often the case ever since the day they first met many years ago Bronze and Crown were having an argument.

It was so vicious, in fact, that the peacekeepers below had needed to herd away all the Capitol citizens that had been nearby so as to maintain their bubble of a world without any problems.

"Like are you honestly for real how can you even live with yourself after the shit you've done?" Crown asked, genuinely at a loss.

"Quite easily, actually," Bronze retorted. "It's always easy to sleep when you have money, fame and women."

"Women like Crimson?" Crown's normally friendly face adorned only hatred. "You've ruined her life Bronze. There's no two ways about it no way no how no sir. This is sick Bronze, sick!"

"So?" Bronze just shrugged, scoffing. "Just because you guys have all your little gripes about the Capitol's rule doesn't mean I have to. Why would I when my life's awesome thanks to the Capitol?"

"At the cost of almost everybody who has ever known you? At the cost of others' freedom and their families if they refuse to obey you?" Crown gaze Bronze a very sickened sort of leer.

"Every man has his price," Bronze replied, chuckling. "You can call me any swear word in the book. Call me a cunt if you really have to. I have everything I could ever want so I'm not gonna act like I feel bad or anything. Besides, what right does one killer have to judge another?"

Crown, for once, was silent. He took a deep breath in and then a deep breath out.

"Your arrogance is gonna get you in some serious trouble one day like you have no ideas what it's gonna be like because boy howdy you've pissed off lots of people. Lots and lots of people," Crown paused, shaking his head. "About the only person you've never hurt or angered is Snow himself."

"What can I say? Me and Snow, we get each other. We're a team," Bronze idly stretched out, smug.

"A team where you do the dirty work like a thug and he gets all of the rewards?" Crown asked.

Bronze rolled his eyes. He made the move to roughly shove past Crown, making sure it'd be hard enough to potentially leave a faint bruise.

"Say whatever you please, it doesn't change a damn thing," Bronze said, bored. "You've old news Crown."

Bronze was soon gone in search of a fine bottle of wine. Crown sighed as he leaned upon the railings. He dared not say a thing out loud, not when anybody might be able to overhear him, but in his mind and his heart he sure hoped that District Thirteen would have something in mind for himself and Harp to do in the name of overthrowing the Capitol.

He really owed Mizar at least five crates of candy for informing him that Thirteen was still alive and would one day be ready for round two.

* * *

 **Treasure Romantic** killed many tributes with her personal axe with a grin on her face. She died with that same axe buried into her skull, a look of terror frozen upon her face.

 **Dreamer Luna** was easily the fastest runner of the career pack, but a badly timed trip made it all too easy for the lava of the eruption to consume her. Nothing was left of the once beautiful young women.

 **Ramesses Firebird** was all about full frontal power in the arena. His failure to watch his back ended with a poisoned arrow in his neck and his life very much over.

 **Fantastic Tzar** thought it was funny to mock and torment the two miner boys during the training days. This came back to haunt him when the eventual victor slashed his chest open with five arcs of a knife.

* * *

The District Two tributes were proud and powerful per the yearly norm. If anything this was the year they were the most of those qualities than ever before, both for the fact it was such a special Games and how there were four of them. Each was a warrior and more than ready to start ending the lives of others.

None were more ready than Comengetorix, a niece of the late Vercingetorix. Incredibly loyal to the Capitol and among the most formidable tributes that Two had ever offered up, it wasn't a shock to anybody that Olga had laid claim towards mentoring her. Both mentor and tribute were incredibly confident of victory.

"You know why you are doing this, correct?" Olga asked, firm.

"Affirmative. To honour the Capitol, play my role towards ensuring a stable nation, to punish the descendants of violent rebels, to bring glory and honour towards my District, my family and myself… oh, and to ensure none of the innocent of our district have to enter the arena before they are ready?" Comengetorix replied.

"All correct, but don't forget about avenging your uncle," Olga paused, seething to herself. "His death was a mistake. A vile one. Worse than what got Boris killed. He may have ended up not being quite the victor I hoped for, but he was still better than bloody _Rook_. Win and avenge him."

"Consider it already done," Comengetorix replied, salting. "Rebel blood will stain the grass."

"Ands if there is no grass…?" Olga prompted.

"They'll still bleed until all life in their eyes is gone. In the name of the Capitol it'll be done," Comengetorix finished with a salute.

"Excellent. Now, above all else… kill Six and make it painful," Olga commanded, her face turning just a little red from hatred.

Comengetorix saluted, confirming it'd be carried out exactly as Olga wanted. The tenth victor allowed herself a brief smirk, more confident than ever that Two was going to win and, a first for the Games, get a back to back victory.

At the other side of the apartment's living room were Brutus and his tribute Gorn were having a tense arm wrestle. Both sweated and clenched their jaws as they tried to gain the upper hand over each other. It seemed like it could go either way.

"You're… good at this…" Brutus grunted, putting his all into the duel.

"You're not… so bad… either," Gorn replied, his face covered in sweat. "How long… have we been… doing this…?"

"Two… hours…!" Brutus wheezed.

It was only a matter of time before the arm wrestle had its winner. Brutus gained the advantage when Gorn finally tired out, bringing his arm down to the table. Brutus panted, cheered and guzzled down the contents of a bottle of water.

"That was good. Real power in that arm of yours. You're gonna do great," Brutus grinned, clapping Gorn on the shoulder. "Banana sundae on me once you step out of that arena."

"I wanted to win before, but now I _really_ want to win," Gorn remarked, laughing. "I can't wait to get cracking!"

"Your knuckles or the other tributes' necks?" Brutus asked, smirking.

"Why stop at necks? Plenty more bones than just those," Gorn replied. "Alright, I'm ready for round two."

"Good man!" Brutus said, laughing as the arm wrestle began anew.

Not far from the pair and seated at the dinner table was Mercy. The misfit victor of Two wasn't having a great mentoring experience. She'd hoped that she'd at least have a tribute with some honour to watch over, but Camakazi was proving to be among the most violent and incredibly sadistic young women it had ever been her horror to meet.

"I can't wait to begin," Camakazi practically shuddered in glee. "They'll bleed and cry and scream and oh fuck I cannot wait."

Mercy could only flinch, rather reminded of the monster from the Forty First Games as she looked over her tribute.

"You know, I need your advice Mercy," Camakazi began to casually sharpen her steak knife. "What do you reckon would be better? Slicing a knee tendon with a hacksaw or hammering a few teeth out. I wanna try it on one of the Twelves."

"Uh… that would only slow down the kills and-," Mercy was cut off before she could say much of anything.

"Exactly, I want to make it last a while. The audience love it, my family will love it and I'll love it. Hacksaw or hammer?" Camakazi repeated, impatient.

"…I trust that you'll be able to work it out for yourself," Mercy quickly rose to her feet, looking rather sick. "I need a moment. Bathroom."

Mercy quickly left. Camakazi shrugged to herself, starting to casually juggle a few of the sharpest steak knives.

Over in a quiet corner was Runa. To her relief she'd been paired with one of the quietest Two tributes in years, a bulky boy by the name of Smolg. He was mighty but more the sort to listen and act, not waste time with talking or any theatrics.

"So, any last minute advice before I get on with it?" Smolg asked. "I feel ready physically, ready mentally, ready emotionally… I'm ready, but I don't to assume I am, you know?"

"That is most wise," Runa replied. "My Grandpa gave me plenty of advice back when I got reaped. You volunteered, but it should probably be applicable for you anyway."

"Sounds good. What advice do you have?" Smolg asked.

"For starters, if something looks too good to be true then it probably is. In my arena a sack of bread was left out in the open. I ignored it. As I found out later post-Games it was bait to trick tributes into a spike trap. Basically, do not go for anything that looks out of place and good, like a tree full of juicy fruit," Runa paused, collecting her thoughts. "For that matter, always eat dinner last just in case somebody else poisoned it first."

"Sounds good. I can work with that," Smolg cracked his knuckles, lightly grunting. "Anything else?"

"Yeah, one thing. Aim high in life but watch out for flying boxes," Runa stated.

Smolg was silent for a few moments. He tried to think over the advice but could only gaze at Runa with a blank, lost stare. He lamely shrugged.

"What the hell?" Smolg said, confused.

"Beats me. I never understood that part of Grandpa's advice, not even when falling boxes fell my way in my Games," Runa replied, softly chuckling. £Ah, Grandpa… damn, I miss him like you wouldn't believe."

* * *

 **Comengetorix Hartwright** was a powerful leader and among the most patriotic tributes ever seen, just shy of Olga herself. She was too trusting, having foolishly turned her back on Treasure and left herself wide open for a late-Games betrayal.

 **Camakazi Nuddix** was lucky enough to find a cave away from the flowing lava and avoid being engulfed. Unlucky for her, she ended dying by smoke inhalation. The lava would've been the better way to go.

 **Gorn Viper** was unable to escape the lava, especially due to being partly on fire already. In his final moments before his fiery demise he let his spear fly, taking out an outlier and eliminating District Nine in one go.

 **Smolg Takeshi** killed over fifty poisonous mutts within the arena in the time after the volcanic eruption. It took only one stab from Haymitch to bring him down.

* * *

The tributes of Three tended to be smart in just about every single year, the exceptions to this being particularly low. The second Quell was not among this small list as each of the four tributes had a recorded IQ of over two hundred. Intellectually no other tribute could come close to them.

On the other hand the four were particularly weedy and both of the girls could hardly see a thing without their glasses. With brawn well and truly impossible for any of them it fell towards the quartet having to use their brains to survive.

That was why the tributes were seated on the sofa, notebooks and pens at the ready, while Honorius paced in front of them.

"Alright guys, class is in session," Honorius declared. "There are four of you, so in theory we have double the chances of winning."

"Doesn't it work out to being the same since each district has four tributes?" one of the girls, Beep, asked.

"Not if you four stay as one unit and end up with a number advantage," Honorius replied. "Stick together at all times, for your own sakes and those of the district. Being found alone would doom each of you."

"How lovely…" the other girl, Code, mumbled. "Do we have any chance?"

"You will, just so long as you listen to everything we're going to tell you," Honorius stated, gesturing to himself and the other mentors. "For starters, what cuts harder? The sword or the brain?"

"The brain. It can create things more dangerous than a sword," the first boy, Dattery, stated.

"Exactly. Use your brains to make the things you need; you can make staffs and spears out of branches if you try hard enough. Rocks can be sharpened to become daggers. In fact you could probably make a fine whip out of a sharp stone and a vine," Honorius continued to pace back and forth. "The arena can be your greatest weapon of all, just so long as you think with clarity, conciseness and calmness."

"How can we stay calm if people are gonna try to kill us?" the second boy, Orbit, whimpered.

"Again, strength in numbers," Honorius explained. "If you stay with each other and work as a team then you'll provide a great emotional support for each other. Madness will set in far slower, if at all."

Honorius soon moved on from talking about the mental benefits of human interaction and went on to cover the landmines located by the launch pedestals. The four tributes listened with rapt, almost eager attention to what the first victor of Three was saying.

"It's a long shot, but if you manage to find the time to do it… see if you can dig up the landmines around the launch pedestas," Honorius suggested. "Theoretically you'd have your own personal supply of hand grenades to fight with. A sword hurts, but bombs hurt far more."

Honorius stepped aside for Beetee to take over from him. The tributes all looked fascinated by the idea of weaponizing the landmines, a fact Beetee did not miss.

"Don't get too excited. It pays to remain rational, for better or worse," Beetee said. "Honorius has suggested that plan each year ever since the Fortieth Games and so far it's never had a chance at working. The careers never leave the cornucopia unguarded… and if they do any tributes of ours are either far away, or dead."

"So, what do you suggest we do?" Beep asked, crestfallen. "Just die and hope that we somehow don't?"

"Not at all. There are plenty of things you can do if the landmines are not an option," Beetee took a tiny taser out from his pocket. "Making a taser wouldn't cost a particularly severe amount of sponsor funding. Neither would making traps; you'd merely need to be creative. That's what it will come back to above all, being creative and being quick to adapt."

"…And killing?" Dattery asked, timidly.

"I'm afraid it would be near impossible to win the Games without killing a single person," Beetee looked grimly understanding. "At bare minimum every victor has taken at least one life. Even Pliny, though hers was admittedly a mercy kill."

"Let's just… pretend they're clockwork or something guys," Beep tapped her fingers together. "Just… clockwork toys full of red paint. Toys we need to put away in the toy chest."

Everybody looked at Beep in a confused silence.

"…It makes me feel better to think of it that way," Beep muttered. "Like I'm less of a murderer-to-be."

"That's good. If it helps make it easier on you then keep doing it," Beetee said approvingly. "If something makes the Games even a tiny bit easier then by all means _do it_. Anything may save your life."

After talking to the quarter of tributes about how to purify water and contaminate the water of other tributes without making it obvious Beetee walked to the side and let Wiress take his place.

Naturally it was a few moments before Wiress said anything at all other than soft mumbles.

"Try to… live long and… do the thing," Wiress said, making awkward gestures with her hands. "The thing, being something like… not dying?"

The tributes tried not to make their hopeless expressions overly obvious. Alas, the Three alliance didn't seem hopeful.

"Aw nuts," Code muttered.

* * *

 **Beep Horton** died upon the mountain as it erupted. Rather than lava or smoke, she got crushed like a bug under a massive boulder expelled from within the volcano.

 **Code Redding** had been walking with a limp ever since the bloodbath. She had no chance of outrunning the lava and died screaming for her mother.

 **Dattery Griswald** came up with over three hundred plans for survival while fleeing from the horribly hot lava. Not a single one could save him when he tripped over a single pebble.

 **Orbit Rilgar** made it to the base of the volcano, his allies all dead behind him. His relief did not last long, as the eruption sent a boulder at a tree. The tree crushed him underneath it before he could scream.

* * *

It was a fairly unusual situation that the District Four floor was host to in this year of the Games. It was not unheard of for tributes from Four to join the careers or be at the mercy of them, whether one or both in either direction. In this year however the older and burlier tributes, Beach and Rod, had been accepted into the pack and were both ready to get on with the Games they'd volunteered for. The younger and weaker pair, Guppy and Dylan, had been reaped and were already targets for the careers. So much so that Rod had called them dead kids walking and cast them away as weaklings.

In spite of all the tension going on it was a fairly quiet and peaceful night for the Fours. Well, relatively speaking of course. It was understandably hard for anybody to feel truly at ease when a deathmatch loomed with only a one in forty eight chance of not being killed.

Beach and Rod were passing the evening by with a game of cards against each other, Mags and Tide. All four had their poker faces on, each giving nothing away to their opponents.

"You've gotta give up that poker face sometime Rod. C'mon, blink already!" Beach exclaimed.

"Not gonna happen. I've got years of practise doing this," Rod replied with a snicker. "Nothing you do is gonna get me to lose focus."

"What about that boy from Eight?" Beach asked, smirking. "The fat one? You guys have been going at it since before the parade. Honestly, it's getting repetitive."

"We'll settle it in the arena first thing tomorrow," Rod replied, growling. "Once I grab a trident he won't stand a chance."

"Well, be careful. He did score an eight," Beach stated, looking back at her cards.

"What's he gonna do? Sit on me?" Rod asked, scoffing.

"Don't tempt him," Tide stated. "I'd be willing to bet money he'd totally do it. Ok, all in!"

Tide laid down her hand, showing two pairs of queens. She grinned smugly as Rod and Beach both cursed, laying down their own poor hands of pairs of twos, sixes, sevens, and tens. With grumbles they passed over a few caps into Tide's hands.

"Many thanks," Tide said, snickering. "I know exactly what I'll do with this money."

"Let me guess, make more bets?" Mags guessed, her voice ever so dry. "You don't buy much Tide, I've noticed. You just bet to gain more money."

"A woman's gotta have a hobbie," Tide replied, shrugging.

Mags reached out to grab the money from Tide's hand, a rather smug grin now covering her face.

"Hey, give me money back," Tide said, scowling.

"Why ever should I do that? I won," Mags said, cheeky as could be. "Read them and reap, Tide!"

Mags laid down a hand of four aces, smirking as she took in the bewildered look on Tide's face. For a few moments it seemed like Tide's brain had broken.

"What… wait… what… what the hell?!" Tide clutched her head in both hands. "Where the hell did you get those cards Mags?!"

"…Same place you got those cards in yours. I've known you for over twenty years, do you really think I don't know when you're cheating?" Mags snickered again. "Please do cut me a little bit of credit here, Tide."

Tide groaned, defeated for now. She soon began to shuffle the deck of cards once again, ready for the second round to begin. Rod and Beach both exchanged a brief glance.

"So, since Tide cheated and Mags basically admitted to it… can we get our money back?" Beach asked.

"I second that notion," Rod added.

While the career duo and their mentors continued to play cards the two youngsters and their mentors were spending their time watching TV. Guppy and Dylan quietly ate popcorn as they observed the strange commercials playing on the TV from their spots on the sofa beside Museida and Librae.

"Capitol TV is really odd," Guppy mumbled, still confused over the commercial she'd seen that advertised a fish de-boner that had been called the 'wonder boner'.

"You think that one was bad? It gets a whole lot more stupid and wasteful than that," Museida muttered, a dismayed look in his eyes. "Just you watch, it'll get worse."

"How much worse?" Dylan asked, somewhat unnerved.

"Like, much worse dude," Librae replied with a shudder. "You just wait until you see the clown-four-hire commercial."

A new commercial soon began. The mentors and young tributes watched as Leprechaun with bunny ears pranced around within a forest, bragging about his delicious brand of cereal. It wasn't long before two kids entered the area and brutally murdered the leprechaun and started eating his innards. Guppy recoiled, Dylan screamed and both Museida and Librae didn't react.

"Eh, I've seen worse," Librae admitted.

"I've done worse," Museida shrugged, shaking his head.

Guppy covered her face, letting out a soft whimper. Dylan gently put a hand on his ally's shoulder in a futile attempt to comfort her.

"Holy crud guys, what kind of a commercial was that?" Dylan asked, pale faced. "Isn't that kind of insane for something as basic as cereal?"

"Well, this is the Capitol you're in Dylan. This kind of thing is pretty tame around here," Museida said, a grim look in his eyes. "You'll get used to it… if you can win the Games."

"Plus, dude, if you wanna sell boxes of cereal to the Capitol citizens you've gotta pump the gas. Pedal to the metal you know?" Librae nodded her head towards the kitchen area. "I saw our escort buying around sixty boxes of the stuff. Blood works around these parts."

Dylan and Guppy exchanged a helpless sort of glance.

"How about we just turn off the TV and read a book?" Guppy suggested.

"Agreed," Dylan quickly said.

* * *

 **Guppy Charles** proved she was far from weak when, despite being aged twelve years old and one day, she stabbed one of the girls from Seven to death. This meant nothing to Rod who killed her like she was nothing, caring little that she had been from his own district.

 **Beach Pekali** was an expert surfer. Almost as good as Librae's legendary skills. However, surfing on lava was far less successful and she was the first to due during the terrible eruption.]

 **Dylan Keen** tried to hide from the careers in the back of the cornucopia, taking a few cuts along the way there. He'd have likely avoided having Treasure's axe end up in his neck had she not smelled his blood.

 **Rod Blacktide** got into a vicious rivalry with Patric from Eight that started over who would use the sword training station first. Despite Rod's aggression and years of combat training it only took Patric five minutes to kick him in the balls and decapitate him while he was stumbling. His family were disgusted at his mere 4th place ranking.

* * *

The night was bittersweet all around to the tributes of Five, but none moreso than Watts and Khloe. On the one hand death was likely to be coming sooner than later, their lives over before they could truly begin. All when they'd never done a thing wrong.

On the other hand, they did have Porter mentoring them both at the same time and the sweet mute had been nothing but supportive and helpful from the very start. Indeed, she'd even agreed to their final request.

To marry them to each other.

Having become an ordained minister in her free time Porter was eager, willing and able to make it happen. It was all too easy for a victor to rent out a wedding dress, tuxedo and buy a fancy cake for the admittedly small and slightly rushed ceremony. But it didn't matter to Khloe and Watts, both able to get what they had wanted for over a year now.

Porter used a speech pad to get the ceremonial words out, even now preferring to never utter a sound, and made use of a few cue cards to ensure the young couple kept to the general outline of what was meant to happen.

Porter couldn't help but shed a tear as the groom and bride shared a kiss as their marriage was confirmed. Both out of happiness for the couple in front of her and from the pain of loss she still felt for her own lover Dez, taken away by the Games so mercilessly.

Inevitably it was to be the same way for this new couple, one way or the other.

"Thank you Porter," Khlor whispered, teary eyed and gleeful.

"You're the best mentor ever," Watts agreed.

Porter turned a shade of pink, ever so flattered as the newlyweds gave their silent and comparatively shorter mentor a tight hug. She always had liked Five so much better than Four.

While Porter and the newlyweds were getting along just fine the same was not able to be said for Neon and his tribute Marvin. Neon, once a lecherous predator, was a broken shell of a man. Constantly drunk and always miserable after his own traumatising Games. He could only sit on the sofa, downing bottle after bottle of beer.

He was, all things considered, a wholly useless mentor.

"I just… I juuuusssssst…" Neon trailed off into a miserable sob. "I wish I'd d-d-d-d-died in that fffffucking arena."

"You might wish that, but I'd rather not!" Marvin yelled, slightly desperate. "Come on, can't you do anything? Gather sponsors? Tell me a few tips and tricks? I don't know… anything at all!?"

"They're… they're always there…" Neon whispered, shaking. "Always trying to get me…"

"Who?" Marvin asked, totally lost.

"The girls! All the girls!" Neon began to drunkenly sob. "Those twelve girls! All the women in the streets, the two girls who came with you, even Crimson and Porter! They all want to kill me! I can't… I can't!"

Neon began pathetically sobbing once again between chugs of a bottle of whisky. Marvin sighed as he looked at the sorry sight of his mentor. He got up with a shake of his head and left Neon to his self-inflicted torment.

"Hey Porter? Mind giving me a bit of help? Neon's being useless again," Marvin said, torn between desperation and annoyance.

While Marvin stormed away from his mentor the final tribute from Five, Winch, was storming after her mentor. Crimson was soon cornered on the balcony by her tribute, a look of sheer unease adorning her face. Winch stood by the doorway back inside, her arms crossed.

"Ok, tell me," Winch demanded. "What is going on here?"

Crimson remained silent, trying to think of what she should even say.

"Don't play dumb. Porter is the mute, not you. You always had amazing grades back when you were a student, we all know it," Winch took a step closer to her mentor. "Don't lie to me Crimson, you know that something is going on here."

"I, um…" Crimson was starting to shake.

"Tell me right now. I'm not moving until you do," Winch balled her fists, red in the face. "Why do so many men want to sponsor me? Even before I started training the escort said I had sixty men who were interested in me. I saw them at the interviews… they were old, fat and gross. Now tell me… what's going on here?!"

Crimson looked like she was about to throw up. Indeed, that's exactly what she ended up doing right over the side of the balcony. Alas, Winch wasn't backing down for a moment. Crimson shakily sat down in a chair and looked at Winch.

Her face was one of purest pain and defeat.

"…Ok, I'll tell you. Shortly after my own victory… well, do you know who Bronze Marley is?" Crimson asked, sick to her stomach.

"That arrogant bastard from One? Yeah, sadly. Why, what's he got to do with this?" Winch asked.

"He took a fancy to me when I was in the arena… he came up with an idea that Snow took on," Crimson hesitated for a moment. "If you win and you're really pretty… you get sold to Capitol citizens."

"…Sold?" Winch repeated, a growing unease in her voice.

"You body, that is. He forces you to have sex with the highest bidder… a-a-and if you don't… your family…" Crimson was soon sobbing too much to speak properly, only able to draw a line across her throat. "My family don't even know… they think I've became a slut. I love them so much, but if I told them… Snow would have them killed!"

Crimson sobbed harder and harder. Winch looked green in the gills, sheer horror written into her eyes.

"So if I win… oh shit…" Winch soon repeated Crimson's earlier action of throwing up over the side of the balcony. "Oh fuck. Shit, shit, shit…"

It wasn't long before Crimson left to head back inside, sobbing in misery. She needed rest before her third 'appointment' of the day. Winch was alone on the balcony for quite some time, wondering just what the hell she was going to do to get through this horribly nightmare.

When Porter came to take her to bed at midnight she felt that she had her answer.

* * *

 **Winch Macowi** decided she'd rather die than become a sex object for nasty Capitol men for the rest of her life. She deliberately stepped off of her pedestal one second too early.

 **Khloe Teethling** fought side by side with her husband to gather supplies and make it out of the bloodbath alive. They ended up dying side by side thanks to the boys from One and two nasty spears.

 **Watts Hickory** outlived his wife by a few precious seconds. Seconds in which he made sure to land a nasty cut across Ramesses' arm before the reaper claimed him.

 **Marvin Groke** was wholly unprepared thanks to Neon's useless mentoring and made sure to call him out for his entire time in the Games… two minutes and three seconds before Treasure slit his throat.

* * *

It was a lucky thing that the tribute building's floors were completely soundproof. Especially so for the District Six floor. Per the general norm it was an incredibly noisy sort of place, but this year was the loudest it had ever been. After all, not only was Chassis a particularly loud person to begin with but all four of his tributes were loudmouths and fairly wild as well.

They were also using various musical instruments Chassis had rented out to put on a rather insane rock performance to enjoy the final night before the Games would begin. Between the electric guitars, the drum set, the electric clarinet and Chassis' off-key singing it was one massive din that would leave one's ears ringing for a long time.

It made it rather impossible for Abe, now particularly elderly, to enjoy his evening tea.

"Guys, quieten down a bit!" Abe exclaimed. "I'm gonna be dead in a few months, the least you can do is let me finish my tea in peace!"

Even with all the noise going on Chassis heard his former mentor and current best friend's words loud and clear. He signalled to his tributes to quieten down.

"What's up Abe?" Chassis asked, stuffing the microphone into his back pocket.

"What's up is that there is a bloodbath tomorrow and I haven't finished my tea yet. Can't get any sleep without it," Abe paused to sip his warm drink. "Also, what do you think you're doing with this rock band Chassis? I mean, really?"

"But… it's fun," Chassis said, awkward. "Right guys?"

"Totally!" one of the girls, Nikkina, exclaimed. "Like for reals, this is awesome-sauce!"

"I have no idea what any of that even meant, but I agree," the other girl, Auto, added. "I wanna take the electric guitar into the arena with me. Call it my token or something."

The boys looked down at their instruments, an electric guitar and an electric clarinet, and both clearly thought the exact same.

"Come on Abe, don't make us stop," the first of the boys, Subaru, said. "If this is our final night… let's rock out. Make it fun."

"I've never felt so alive!" the second boy, Ford, was quick to agree. "Come on, let us continue!"

"See Abe? The gang are having an awesome time," Chassis grinned widely. "I had a master plan too. We let the victor become a member of the Hazardous Hooligans. That'll motivate them, right?"

Abe finished off his tea. He looked at Chassis and the four tributes with an uncharacteristically firm glare.

"You misunderstand me entirely," Abe said, firm and forceful.

Abe dropped the act and smirked widely.

"I keep telling you the same thing Chassis… no wild rocking out without me!" Abe exclaimed with a laugh. "Come on, pass me the microphone!"

"Aw yeah! You got it Abe!" Chassis cheered as he tossed the microphone to Abe and, seemingly from thin air, took out an electric guitar. "Tributes, rock out!"

The Six team began to rock all over again, the music becoming one massive bedlam of rock and roll that would surely keep the escort up all night. None of them cared at all, of course. How could they when the tributes' final guaranteed night alive was turning out to be so much incredible fun?

Six was rarely triumphant, but they sure had awesome music. Everybody cheered, rocking out in glee.

"Yeah! Good stuff guys!" Chassis bellowed as he headbanged up and down, rocking out hard. "Awesome singing Abe!"

Abe laughed, winking at the man he had mentored to victory years ago. With nothing but the music pounding in his ears and life flooding through him Abe resumed his death metal solo.

It was glorious.

* * *

 **Nikkina Marrolto** had gotten no sleep for the past two days. She fell asleep on her launch pedestal and only woke moments before Treasure slaughtered her.

 **Auto Hendrix** was an acrobatic as they came and easily dodged all of Treasure's attempts to axe her to death. Too bad she ended up backflipping into a rack of spears beside the cornucopia and impaled herself, living long enough for Comengetorix to finish her off.

 **Subaru Denkins** was slowed to a crawl by a poisonous dart in the final days of the quell. The last thing he saw before passing out was the second boy from Twelve approaching him, knife in hand.

 **Ford Pascal** thought he would be able to take down the fat boy from Eight to impress sponsors. He was so very, very wrong as proved by the mace that smashed him upside the head.

* * *

It wasn't a peaceful night for District Seven by any means. Not only was the looming deathmatch a terrible thing to think about for all of them per the norm, but this year something else had happened that generally remained a rarity.

One of the tributes of Seven had been accepted into the career pack. Bartel hadn't merely been recruited, but had gone out of his way to join in with bullying other tributes and showing no mercy in training to prove himself worthy. His might and his survival knowledge made him an obvious candidate to join the career alliance.

It was something that Jill and Leaf were both disgusted by, the pair having lost friends and family over the years to the Games and being sickened that somebody would sink so low as to aspire for a place amongst the 'sadistic shitbeasts' from One, Two and sometimes Four.

"It's my life, I can do what I want with it!" Bartel roared, slamming his fist upon the table, making the plates and glasses clatter. "Don't get all high and mighty just because I took initiative to survive!"

"You turned your back on everything that makes you a Seven!" Jill shouted, seething and looking as red in the face as her hair.

"Oh, like you have any right to judge! I've seen how you've kept bullying the younger tributes and younger people back home. You're such a fucking hypocrite!" Bartel spat.

"I was just preparing myself for the arena!" Jill shouted.

"Get fucked, you just did it because you thought it was fun! I'm only with those sickos because then they won't kill me!" Bartel picked up a glass, waving it around threateningly. "Don't make me throw it, I will!"

"Ok, on the one hand Bartel is right that you don't really have any room to judge him Jill, even if careers are awful people," the second boy, Leaf, stated. "He's free to do as he wants."

"Traitor!" Jill spat.

"I don't know, he's making sense to me," Bartel said with a sneer.

"That said, I was just a harmless average joe back home so I do have a right to judge him," Leaf continued. "You're siding with teens that murder Sevens almost every year and treat the Games like a glorious pageant or some kind of human hunting party! You're a disgrace!"

"Oh fuck off Leaf! If you're gonna get high and mighty you should hate our mentors too because, oh yeah, they actually killed people!" Bartel set the glass down, only to overturn the table. "Fucking hell, Jack outright cheated the Games and Pliny isn't on our side anymore! She went to Twelve!"

The vicious argument continued on and on with absolutely no end in sight. Off to the side were Jack and Snag, the men observing the verbal beatdown with a sense of resignation in their eyes.

"You know what mate? I do not think we're gonna be winning this year," Jack remarked, shaking his head. "Why can't they be like the Threes and, you know, swallow their pride and work as a team?"

"Because that's what people are often like. When somebody thinks they're right they just won't back down," Snag replied, sighing to himself. "Honestly, what can we even do?"

"…Bribe them with cash to get them to behave? Other than that I have no idea," Jack replied, shrugging. "I figured you'd be better at settling this kind of thing. I don't know how kids work these days. You're the father."

"Yeah, of little girls. Not teenagers," Snag said, a hand over his tired eyes.

In the years that followed his own victory Snag and his sweetheart Paisley had gotten married. It had only been a matter of time before they were blessed with triplet daughters and then a further daughter only recently. Snag loved his girls Acre, Sunset, Petals and little Bloom ever so much… and that was exactly the thing he knew would ruin him one day.

He was always worried that one of them, or even more, would enter the arena in the future. It would not be the first time relatives of victors had entered the Games after all.

"Mate, you ok?" Jack asked quietly. "…Is it the leg thing or the family thing bothering you?"

"The family thing," Snag adjusted his stance in his wheelchair. "The leg thing is fine. I'm sure they'll work out how to fully cure it one day and not just give me a month of walking each year. Really, who cares about me when my daughters will one day be old enough for… well, this?"

Snag gestured around the room and towards the ongoing argument. He sighed in resignation.

"I just have an awful feeling," Snag said, blankly. "I should be focused on these guys. But I can't stop thinking about it, and…"

Jack laid a hand on Snag's shoulder. The petty crook gave him a gentle smile.

"Mate, I promise you this, if one of your kids gets reaped I will literally rob the Capitol's biggest banks to get the sponsor funds they need to make it home. No questions asked, nothing owed," Jack winked, smirking. "I'm a master thief. I can practically walk through a bank's walls if I really want to."

"…Thanks Jack," Snag said, weakly.

Meanwhile at the far side of the room from the argument were Fir and her own tribute, a tiny girl by the name of Sparrow. Being aged twelve years old and two days nobody thought that Sparrow had a chance to survive in the arena.

None but her ever optimistic and slightly dim mentor with a heart of gold.

"I just don't want it to hurt," Sparrow whispered, shaking like a leaf as she lay huddled up in Fir's arms.

"It won't hurt. Because you're going to win," Fir insisted, her smile somewhat painful to keep plastered onto her face. "You're going to win and make it home safe and sound. You'll be happy and I'll be there to give you a hug. Then we can get ice cream and I'll help you settle into the village. Just you watch, it's gonna be alright. I promise!"

"Really?" Sparrow asked with a sniffle.

"I've never told a lie," Fir whispered sincerely. "Come on, let's get you off to bed."

Fir gently carried her sniffling tribute away, a grim pit starting to form in her stomach as she kept a careful hold on the girl. It was true, Fir had never told a lie and meant what she had said to Sparrow.

The thing was, she had been wrong a lot of times in her life. Fir prayed that this was one of the few times where she would actually be right about something.

* * *

 **Sparrow Zune** lasted longer than anybody expected a twelve year old to be able to. Too afraid to risk eating or drinking any of the fruit or water in the arena led to her body shutting down and dehydration claiming her in sixth place.

 **Jill Ndesu** was loud, crass and known for bullying people much younger than her as an excuse to 'prepare for the Games'. Many saw it as poetic justice when the tiniest, youngest girl killed her with one strong stab to the gut.

 **Bartel Avery** was a very rich boy and was wealthy in Caps, power and sense. But none of it saved him when the volcano erupted.

 **Leaf Yellow** climbed onto the horn of plenty and tried to jump down and tackle Treasure. He completely missed and broke his leg, leaving himself as easy prey.

* * *

The District Eight floor was particularly quiet, all things considered. The tributes had split off into two pairs on opposite sides of the floor, both having formed opposite duo alliances.

The girls this year were cousins and, after scoring well in training and acing the interviews, had decided that there was really only one proper way to spend the final night before the Hunger Games began once more.

Try to get Woof to obey a command like he had done to bizarre and horrifying levels back in his own Games many years prior.

"Do a cartwheel!" Needle exclaimed.

"Do twenty five jumping jacks!" Thread added.

"No, wait, sing the national anthem but in Pig Latin!" Needle shouted.

"Eat a pickle covered in mustard and strawberry jam!" Thread added with a sly giggle.

"Run around in nothing but your underpants!" Needle whooped.

"No, better idea, kill President Snow!" Thread pleaded.

Woof could only look at the cousins with a sort of confused helplessness in his eyes. He slowly backed away, rather spooked by the way the pair were looking at him as though he were some kind of a lab animal rather than a victor.

"I'm past that," Woof muttered, wincing. "I stopped because Duke told me to stop."

Woof was quick to leave after that and lock himself within his bedroom. The cousins were left to sigh in disappointment and find some other way to curb their boredom. In the end they decided to just watch TV and snark at whatever it was they ended up watching.

The boys, Boot and Patric, were not remotely focused on any of the mentors or the girls. They were instead playing a Capitol trading card game together, having run out of any other activities to take part in.

"I use my Dark Magician to take out your District Savage!" the first boy, Boot, declared. "You must then take two hundred life points of damage!"

"Oh, you'd like that wouldn't you?" the second, and larger, boy replied. Patric flipped over one of his own cards. "I'm playing the Zombie Career trap card. You just lost two turns and your District Savage now works for me!"

"Dammit!" Boot cursed, passing the card over. "You're good at this. Too good."

"Well, I stink at just about every other sport. Be a shame if I didn't have at least one I can claim to not be shit at," Patric said, looking over the cards in his hand.

"Are card games a sport?" Boot asked, doubtful.

"They are now," Patric replied. "So… we know what we're doing tomorrow, right?"

"Of course. We grab the nearest backpack and knife to our pedestals and run past the tail of the cornucopia. If that's impossible we head west," Boot recited.

"Exactly. Oh, and leave that bitch from Four for me. He's all mine," Patric said, narrowing his eyes.

"Think you can handle him?" Boot asked. "I mean, he's really tough and-."

"He'll need every bit of his toughness to take me out. I'm playing my own trap card on him… it's called the 'fancy neck breaker'," Patric said, smirking as he took a card from his hand. "Ok, my turn. I'll play my President Weevil in defence mode."

Out on the balcony were Spool and Paige, the pair watching the starry night sky as they mentally prepared themselves for the looming Games the next day. Mentoring was never easy for the textiles district.

"Think this will be our year Tag?" Paige asked. "I tried not getting attached, but like always I failed. I just can't help but care about them. Love them almost like family… is that crazy?"

"Not at all. They're innocent kids, what's not to like?" Spool asked, gazing up at the stars and the abyss beyond. "I think we have a shot. Hardly the worst of all the districts."

"I guess we just have to hope, even if hope feels pointless on my bad days," Paige glanced through the window behind her at the tributes inside the building. "What we do if they all die Tag? I know we've lost most Hunger Games in history, but we've never lost four at once."

"I… I guess we do our best to keep on living," Spool said, gently patting Paige on her shoulder. "I mean, if we really wanted to be protective in the case of defeat… we could support District Ten. I mean, better them than One or Two, so…?"

Paige couldn't help but softly laugh, even in spite of her gloom.

"You know, you're really not subtle. Neither you nor Lammy," Paige remarked. "It's so obvious how painfully in love you two are."

"Painfully?" Spool shook off the feeling of surprise. "Oh come on Paige. Sure, we've always had a 'thing' for each other and, yes, that tabloid kind of caught us in the picture booth, but I'd hardly call us 'not subtle'. I mean-."

"You guys have a yearly 'roll in the fabric'," Paige stated, crisp and calm. "I think even Teff heard it last year."

Spool, for once in his life, had absolutely no comeback whatsoever. His mouth opened and closed uselessly for several long moments.

"I'm just playing around," Paige said after a moment. "Just trying to distract myself from… well, everything really?"

"By all means, keep going then. The privacy of my love life is a truly small price to pay for your sake of mind," Spool chuckled at the look of Paige's face. "Just kidding. It's fine Paige, really."

"Heh, thanks. You know, you guys did always seem to fall in love quickly… like you have your own very special bond," Paige mulled it over for a moment. "Know what I mean?"

"I like redheads and she likes dyed hair," Spool said with a helpless sort of shrug. "It is what it is."

"Heh… knew it. You couldn't keep a secret to save your life Tag," Paige said, starting to faintly smile again. "Want me to get us some drinks?"

"Sure, but only a small one. I'll have to run soon," Spool said, stretching out. "Lammy and I are heading out to a club."

"Well, I hope you both have a good time," Paige got up and headed inside. "I'm happy for you Tag, you know that right?"

"I sure do," Spool assured his mentor with a confident smile.

Once Paige was gone Spool let out a breath he'd seemingly not realised he was holding.

"Can't keep a secret, huh?" Spool couldn't help but chuckle at the irony of it all. "I think we'll have to agree to disagree on that one, Paige."

* * *

 **Needle Rasetti** went bonkers from the guilt of abandoning her cousin. Her insanity led to her making plenty of loud noise… enough to ensure Apple found her and turned ten tributes into nine.

 **Thread Rasetti** saved her cousin from being attacked midway to the cornucopia by Ramesses and briefly drove him off. Needle failed to repay this act of kindness when Rod came at her with a rapier.

 **Boot Gaston** lost all of his fingers and a few toes as the Games went by. The eruption killed him before he could ask Patric to do it for him.

 **Patric Yarn** left the audience stunned as he kept on surviving day after day until he took down his rival in short order. However, tough as he was… the hundred carnivorous squirrels were still tougher and left him in third place.

* * *

It was a very tense night all around for District Nine. Normally the tributes of the grain district would at least be civil with each other, but this year was quite a diversion away from the norm. The four tributes were all from a different infamous gang that were known for making the streets of Nine dangerous and often broken.

Eveline was from the Baseball Furies. Leah was from the Downtown Scrappies. Kriss was from the Ugly Failures. Jori was from the West End Warriors.

Each gang had a vicious hatred for the other and the tributes all wanted each ither dead out of sheer gang loyalty and mentality. With pre-Games fighting against their self-interests, however, they had been willing to wait until the gong rang to attempt anything at all, assuming they were launched close to each other.

Until then the four bitter, vicious teens simply sat on the sofa exchanging nasty glares. That and reluctantly watched the show being performed in front of them. Tabbock had set up a tiny sort of stage and was putting on a magic show for the tributes. He was clearly having a wonderful time being able to show off.

Teff, meanwhile, looked incredibly annoyed in her role as Tabbock's silent 'lovely assistant'. She let out a huff, not liking the assistant outfit she'd been made to wear for the show.

"For my next trick I will require a volunteer for the audience!" Tabbock exclaimed, showy and flashy as always. "How about you, my good sir?"

"Fuck off," Jori spat.

"My oh my, such language in the audience today folks!" Tabbock remarked. "Maybe you, young lady?"

"I'd rather have all my ribs torn out fuck face," Eveline grunted. "Stay the hell away from me."

"Whoa. Ouch, that actually hurt to be honest? Like, I actually feel upset. My self-esteem feels very low right now," Tabbock mimed wiping away a tear. "Oh well, I guess we'll just have to settle for my lovely assistant helping me. Give it up for Teff everybody!"

Nobody made a sound. The ruffian tributes only glared in a stone cold silence. Tabbock was not to deterred and quickly went on with his planned trick. He made Teff stand in front of a specific part of the wall… and took out over two dozen knifes from his jacket.

"Presenting an old favourite of mine, knife throwing!" Tabbock declared, aiming the first knife.

Teff could only grumble. She really didn't like Tabbock very much at all. He was nothing compared to the other boy from Nine who left the arena alive.

Then again, in her opinion no victor was better than her beloved uncle.

Her uncle wasn't in the main room of the District Nine floor. Indeed, he was instead hiding out in one of the bedrooms. An odd sight for many to see without context, the aging first victor was under the bed with Gwenith while Laurel kept an ear out by the door. Strange as it all looked this was the only way to have any guaranteed privacy and what Mizar wanted to talk about couldn't be overheard by anybody.

"Thirteen's stockpiling all their supplies and ammunition. Apparently they're growing stronger by the day and they're starting to build more hovercrafts," Mizar whispered. "Maybe they'll be strong enough to start fighting by the time the next quell comes around."

"Are you sure?" Gwenith asked, ever so anxious. "What if they aren't? What if we rebel and… fail a second time?"

"I'm not sure. I'm trying so hard not to imagine what would happen," Mizar took a moment to calm himself. "The next rebellion is not for right now anyway. We're just laying out the groundwork for it to make sure it's even possible."

"Think we'll live to see it?" Gwenith asked. "A day when the Capitol has fallen?"

"I'm honestly not sure," Mizar let out a troubled sigh. "Part of me doubts I will be. All I can do is live my life helping people and doing whatever I can for the next generation to have a chance to take these people down."

Gwenith gave her lifelong best friend a gentle hug.

"I'll live to see it, no matter what it takes," Gwenith promised. "Count on it. And… you never know, maybe all of us will live to see it. You said it yourself, Thirteen are getting stronger."

"Weapon-wise, yes. They have so many guns and bombs by now," Mizar confirmed. "People however… well, they sometimes get refugees who dare to seek them out. But there was this smallpox outbreak not long ago and, well… you know that contact I told you about? Coin? Well, her family died so she's feeling pretty hopeless. She's not the same anymore."

"Oh no," Gwenith whispered, a heartbroken look on her face. "That poor women…"

"Yeah. Poor her and poor everybody else. It took out at least twenty percent of their population, so that sets us back maybe five years," Mizar shook his head, trying to force a smile. "I may be able to get some medical aid smuggled their way, but… it'll take time."

"Seems like time is what we've got right now," Gwenith said, drawing up her knees. "…So, we'll do our best to make this year Nine's year, right?"

"As always," Mizar said, nodding. "And next year, and the one after and… well, however many it takes until the Games end and us mentors don't need to save kids every year."

The pair soon got out from under the bed. Laurel gave them a nod, assuring them that the coast was clear and nothing had been leaked whatsoever.

"Had a good talk with the dust bunnies?" Laurel asked.

"I'd say we did," Mizar replied. "Ready to get back to the magic show?"

"Not even slightly," Laurel sighed, her palm placed over her face. "But we may as well be ready to step in, just in case Teff tries to strangle Tabbock again."

"She gets that fiery spirit from her mother," Mizar said with an awkward, uneasy laugh. He soon dropped his voice to a near silent whisper. "The others in our group have picked out ten tributes who would be good candidates to join us. Let's do our best to nudge things towards one of them winning."

The two women nodded their agreement and, with reluctance to match Mizar's own, followed him back to where the dismal magic show was still ongoing.

Sure enough Teff was strangling Tabbock as per the norm.

* * *

 **Eveline Oscar** tried to take a drink from a gently flowing river. Her mistake burnt away her entire throat. Haymitch, having witnessed this from a distance, was saved from making the same mistake.

 **Leah Pinch** walked with a limp due to a past gang war. This was her entire undoing as it was what made it possible for Chickadee to throw her to the ground and stomp upon her neck until it broke.

 **Kriss Greener** broke his glasses fifteen seconds into the Games. His spine was broken by Camakazi thirty seven seconds later.

 **Jori Fryer** had always longed to give mountain climbing a try and made a beeline for the massive mountain. He got himself down the mountain just as fast when the eruption happened and would've lived if not for a spear being thrown into his back.

* * *

District Ten was having another awkward final night before the Games, a thing that generally tended to happen every year. This year certainly put things to a whole different level with the extra two tributes that filled the apartment.

One of the girls, Chickadee, had been recruited to join the career pack. Her odds may have been bettered but her reputation certainly hadn't risen in quite the same way. Her general coldness, the way she had a scent of blood always following her around and how she tended to view the other tributes as literal meat had not helped matters. And yet, she wasn't the main problem of the night. She was content to simply sit and stare at the television.

"Will you all knock it off?" she eventually asked her district partners. "I'm trying to watch this. The victim is bleeding. It's interesting."

The main issue for the Tens was the second of their male tributes, Edmire. Tall for a thirteen year old and with some early muscle on him, the kid had proven himself to be a horrible little boy ever since the reaping. Thanks to, in no small part, being raised by a very rich settler family known for their fancy ranch, successful meat and horse rearing and flagrant racism Edmire had turned out to be quite a nasty piece of work.

He'd zeroed in on the other boy and girl, Buller and Dellilah respectively, done his absolute best to break them down at any chance he got. He was unable to threaten the other tributes after training ended for the day, but his fellow Tens had no such escape.

Chickadee never reacted to him, but with Buller and Dellilah both being twelve and what Edmire's folks would call 'work monkeys' it was all too easy for him to break them down over and over again.

"Run monkeys! Run fuckers!" Edmire screeched, waving around a carving knife. "Bet you can't! Don't forget, it's the Hunger Games! It's all real come tomorrow!"

"Leave us alone!" Dellilah wailed, running off to her room sobbing all the way.

"What did we ever do to you?" Buller sniffled, unable to keep still due to all the mad shaking and trembling he was unable to stop himself from doing.

"Existed, that's what you filthy monkey!" Edmire screamed, taking a mock-swipe towards Buller.

The knife came nowhere close to actually hitting Buller, but nonetheless it still had him racing off for his own room. Chickadee watched the whole vicious exchange with a bored look in her eyes.

"I said quiet. They're starting the skinning and I want to hear every moment," she muttered, ever so barely irritated.

That was the moment when Stallion and Lammy raced out of the elevator, having briefly left to speak with an interested sponsor. In an instant Stallion had stampeded over to Edmire to grab his knife while Lammy stood in front of the bully, her hands upon her hips and a serious look of fire in her eyes.

"What was that all about?" Lammy asked, her tone cold as ice. "You… they… how could you?!"

"Shove off pig!" Edmire snapped. "You can't tell me what to do! Like hell I'm gonna listen to a murderer!"

Lammy quietened down after that remark, temporarily stumped. Stallion towered over Edmire, a cold look in his eyes.

"She took no pleasure in any of that. Kid, the arena is an entirely different world," Stallion spoke with severe seriousness. "Don't talk so spitefully about things you don't fully understand. You won't go far acting like this and-."

"Shut up germy bitch!" Edmire shouted. "Like hell I'm gonna listen to a wimp!"

Edmire stormed away to his own room, letting out more awful language with every step. Lammy and Stallion watched him go with particularly uneasy looks on their faces.

"What if he… no! How can I even say that…?" Lammy trailed off, trying to hold back more than a few tears.

"What's wrong?" Stallion asked, moving to stand beside his fellow victor.

"It's just… for a moment there I was worried that he might win. Worried that a little boy might live! What kind of mentor am I?" Lammy asked as she collapsed into a chair. "I just… I can't right now. I just can't Stallion."

"You're overstressed and overworked. You care so much for the tributes that it exhausts you each and every year," Stallion patted Lammy on her shoulder. "You're only human Lammy."

"I know, but even 'only humans' should… I don't even know where I was going with any of this," Lammy rested her head in her hands. "Mentoring is hard. Sometimes it feels harder than being a tribute ever was."

"Well, you did manage to win the Games without every directly confronting or even seeing anybody outside the first minute," Stallion said, a gentlemanly chuckle escaping his lips.

Lammy couldn't help but weakly smile in response to this. Her smile was soon gone when she glanced in the direction the three young tributes had left, her heart aching from how obvious it was none were likely to survive long in the arena.

"He's right, being a tribute is harder," Chickadee added, slightly annoyed. "People keep talking too loud when you try and watch TV."

Stallion and Lammy walked away from Chickadee, mainly to get away from the gruesome contents of the movie she was watching on the TV. Stallion passes Lammy her coat, giving her a friendly smile.

"Go enjoy the club with Tag," Stallion said. "I'll keep an eye on things here for tonight. I can handle these four by myself for at least five hours."

Lammy gave Stallion a hug.

"Thanks Stallion," Lammy said, managing to smile in spite of it all.

* * *

 **Chickadee Quint** outran the lava to the base of the mountain. However, by that point she was completely on fire and swiftly ended up burnt to a crisp like char broiled bacon.

 **Dellilah June** ran from the bloodbath and didn't stop running until she'd gotten seven miles away. She stopped for a drink from one of the pools… a drink that was truly to die for.

 **Buller Ingerman** was unfortunate enough to be launched between Comengetorix and Dreamer. He was as good as dead before the gong rang.

 **Edmire Loom** was among the most aggressive thirteen year olds to enter the Games. However, as powerful of a bully as he was on the schoolyard, he was powerless against Smolg's knife and Treasure's axe.

* * *

Chaff poured out two large glasses of powerful beer, one for himself and the other for his tribute of the year – a rather lanky boy by the name of Rake. The pair clinked glasses and chugged down the alcoholic drinks as though they hadn't drunk anything in days.

"That hit the spot," Chaff said, already pouring himself another drink. "I don't know about you Rake, but there's no better way to relax after a bad week of broken rules and dreams than some strong beer."

"You said it," Rake said, setting down his glass and lightly hiccing. "Sure makes me feel better about probably dying."

Rake poured himself a second drink a moment later and quickly knocked it back. A third drink followed the second and soon enough both tribute and mentor were starting to get particularly wasted as they babbled and slurred about their troubles.

"My dad always… always said he hated my… worthless hide…" Rake slurred. "Wonder if he'll give a shit when my guts get… torn out…"

"That's harsh luck my friend," Chaff said, letting out a drunken belch. "He… he probably won't… soz…"

"It's fiiiiiine, I always knew he ffffucking hated me," Rake said, pouring out another drink. "My ma's dead, my friends hate me, my girlfriend ran off with a donkey, my life sssssucks… but at least beer w-w-w-won't judge me…"

"Beer will alwayssssss be there for you…" Chaff drunkenly stated, hiccing a few times. "It was there for me when my parents died of heatstoke and my s-s-s-school threw me out ffffffor being a 'murderer'. Beer won't ever jjjjjudge you for it, it's a… a friend…"

"I'll drink to that!" Rake exclaimed.

The pair poured more drinks, clinked glasses and chugged down the strong beverages. In moments they were swaying so much that it was a true wonder that they hadn't fallen to the floor yet.

Not far from the two drunkards was Bear. Having been the most experience mentor he'd stepped up to mentor two tributes at once, a girl by the name of Apple and a boy called Till. The three sat on the sofa as Bear went over tactics with them for the brutal deathmatch ahead of them.

"It's all about getting others on the ground and not giving them a chance to struggle. Kick all weapons out of their arms' reach, don't let them even grab any rocks and… basically, just hit them where it'll tire them out faster. A punch to the neck, a knee to the crotch," Bear took a moment to sigh. "…A knife to the eyes."

"Makes sense to me. Disgusting, but sensible," Apple said as she wrote down notes in her notebook. "So, it's impossible to win without killing… right?"

"In theory it can be done, but it's certainly not something you should count on. It'd require such a specific series of events nobody could possibly know in advance," Bear replied, dismayed. "So, expect to take at least one life."

Apple and Till exchanged a brief glance with each other, neither wanting to be the one to say it. Eventually Till gave in and nodded wearily.

"Kills make the sponsors happy, right?" Till began.

"Sadly, yes," Bear confirmed. "Why?"

"Well, we'll probably need sponsors to survive. The cornucopia's too dangerous to linger by for long, so… any targets you'd recommend going for?" Till asked, swelling down a little bit of bile.

Bear recoiled, both horrified and tragically understanding of how his tributes felt. He sighed, weakly nodding to them.

"I'd say those of the least risk like the little ones or maybe those from Twelve. For several rich sponsors a kill is a kill no matter who it is or how it happens. Only thing that matter sis having it be attached to your name," Bear paused to unscrew the cap on his bottle of water. "If you get the chance to kill a career and pull it off then the audience will certainly be on your side. But it all comes back to one thing… would you risk it?"

Apple shook her head, clearly not interested in challenging the career pack. Till on the other hand seemed less sure about abandoning such an idea.

In one of the bedrooms Seeder was putting the second female tribute to bed. At fourteen years old and being rather underweight it seemed very likely that Plum was going to die the next morning. The headaches she'd been getting after a bad reaction to some sort of Capitol food she'd eaten over the week did not help.

What made it all the worse was that Plum was Seeder's niece.

"It hurts," Plum mumbled, a hand to her sore head. "I just want it to stop."

"It'll be over soon," Seeder whispered, gently holding her niece. "It'll all be over. Now, can I get you anything else… anything at all?"

"I'd like some water," Plum whispered, squirming under the sheets in discomfort. "Please…"

"Of course dear," Seeder whispered.

Seeder managed to keep on a loving and calm expression until she left the room and lightly closed the door behind her. With Plum no longer able to see her Seeder freely let the tears start to flow down her face as she went to fetch the water.

She couldn't lie to herself, her niece was going to get killed. Of all people it was her. With only four slips in the reaping bowl and others having dozens, some even more than ninety, it was still her.

Seeder knew riggage when she saw it.

She also knew a hopeless situation when she saw it.

* * *

 **Apple Fieldworth** made herself as forgettable as possible. Even the careers seemed to forget she'd ever existed as the days went by. Too bad the pink birds remembered she existed.

 **Plum Howell** didn't make it ten steps before the careers launched either side of her closed in and broke over forty bones in her body.

 **Rake Finster** went into the arena completely hungover and barely aware of anything. Despite this he still took down another tribute and wandered the forest in a stupor for days, dying by Treasure's axe only two hours before the eruption happened.

 **Till Wilkins** tried to take on one of the careers to impress sponsors. He managed to get Fantastic on the ground and stab his shoulder, but didn't hear Gorn coming to the rescue until a spear was stabbed through his back and out the front of his chest.

* * *

District Twelve's floor was always a hopeless sort of place on the night before the Games began. It was hard for them not to be due to how their tributes almost always died early and their one victor had won so very long ago, before careers had really taken proper form.

With their one victor now dead as well it seemed like Twelve's odds of ever having a victor were the absolute lowest they had ever been in history.

Maysilee was not one to give up quite so easily. She'd been able to rope two of her three district partner into a loyal, secure alliance and already the trio had a solid plan of action for the next day.

"It'll be simple, or at least as simple as he can be," Maysilee told her allies, a miner girl by the name of Ember and a small boy known to all as Russet. "A bigger tribute count means a bigger clearing by the cornucopia. The careers probably will make a run for the Cornucopia to grab weapons before they try to kill us. That'll be our que to grab whatever we can and run out of there."

"I'm grabbing a backpack, right?" Russet asked.

"Indeed you are. The closest one to your own pedestal, but no going more than halfway to the horn," Maysilee warned. "It wouldn't end well."

"Don't worry, I'm staying well away from it," Russet gulped, knowing that even among allies his odds of winning were very slim.

"Ember, you'll be going three quarters in and grabbing some kind of a pack, alongside a weapon. Doesn't matter what kind of weapon, just something that's sharp," Maysilee continued.

"You can count on me. I'll be too quick for them to do anything to," Ember said, trying to fake a bit of confidence. "…I hope."

"Just keep moving and you'll be alright," Maysilee assured her. "As for me… I'm making the run. Two packs and two weapons. That should be enough to last us for a few days. We all remember our survival skills, right?"

"Right," Russet and Ember said at once.

"Then it seems we're prepared. This will be Twelve's year guys," Maysilee took a deep breath, closing her eyes. "It just has to be."

One tribute was all alone out on the balcony, having decided to brood in silence away from everybody else. Haymitch watched the stars and the distant street parties going on through the Capitol.

He narrowed his eyes in upmost hatred.

"Lazy rich freaks," Haymitch muttered, disgusted. "Who the hell do these people think they are? I'll show them, I'll show them all."

Haymitch remained like this for a while, simply muttering about the predicament he had gotten himself into through no fault of his own. So bitter was he that he did not go inside to join his fellow tributes, not even for cake. He didn't wish to distract himself from his goal or get attached to people who would surely end up dead.

Then again, in his darkest moments he'd admit to himself that he was likely to end up as just another dead tribute from Twelve. It was, after all, the way it always ended up going.

Eventually midnight arrived and somebody came out from inside to join Haymitch. He didn't look up as his district's new mentor walked beside him. He was content to just sit in stony silence.

Pliny, however, wanted to talk.

"I think you could win," Pliny said, carefully sitting down next to Haymitch.

"…Seriously?" Haymitch asked, lost. "I've been a feisty bastard since I got here, you know it as well as I do. How can I possibly win? Duke barely won against twenty three. How can I win against forty seven?"

"Well… feisty bastards can win the Games Haymitch," Pliny said, letting out a sleepy yawn. "You have something about you, y'know? You're tough, but not exactly cold or mean. You could kill if you had to, but you're not a sadist. You're just really… driven."

"Yeah, it's called not wanting to end up dead," Haymitch replied, shrugging. "It's nothing special."

"I don't know, it seems special to me. The sheer determination when people say you can't, the desire to prove people wrong… the fact you've been nice to me whenever we've spoken," Pliny paused, wiping away a single tear. "You remind of Duke."

"Do I? I never thought I was anything like him," Haymitch said, lost as he gazed up at the night sky. For all he knew it could have been the last time he did.

"You are in the ways that really matter," Pliny smiled weakly. "I knew him best. I was there with him at the very end. You're as determined as he is, whether to survive or do what really matters. I can feel it in my bones."

"You can, hm? Well… hopefully you're right. I don't want to feel a spear in my bones," Haymitch said, a morbid grimace adorning his face as he stood up. "Guess we'll see how it goes in the arena. Probably horribly, let's be honest."

"Try and believe, Haymitch," Pliny stood on her tiptoes to lay a hand on her tribute's shoulder. "You must believe."

"Believe?" Haymitch shook his head. "I'm too old for fantasy. Still… thanks for mentoring us. It was really nice of you, not that it's gonna do me much good in the end."

Pliny watched as Haymitch left to go bed and, potentially, take his final night of rest.

"You must believe," Pliny repeated, her words coming out as a soft whisper.

* * *

 **Maysilee Donnor** fought hard alongside Haymitch, even making it to the final five. Alas, the final four remained out of reach thanks to a flock of nasty bright pink bird mutts with terribly sharp beaks…

 **Ember L'Bronx** only wanted to stop and admire the butterflies. She didn't realise just how poisonous and evil they were until they'd already begun to bite her.

 **Russet Cobbler** was born scared and alone in a care home, his family vanishing as quick as they arrived. He died scared and alone by the blade of Treasure's axe in the darkness of the arena on the first night, having lost track of his allies mere hours ago.

* * *

Haymitch sat at the table in one of the train carriages, lost in his haunted thoughts. Memories of the terrible poisoned paradise he'd been the sole survivor of danced around his mind in one hell of a trauma tango.

The mutts. The poison rivers. The way he'd had to hold his own intestines inside of himself. The murders he'd committed without having to think twice of it.

He was just glad it was finally over.

"How can I help?" Pliny asked as she sat down beside Haymitch, passing him a mug of hot chocolate. "Here, drink it. It's good."

Haymitch downed the mug in one gulp, setting it down firmly.

"I don't know how to feel," Haymitch admitted. "I won. I'm going home. Things are gonna be back to normal now, but… no, I already know they won't be. It'll never be the same."

"It won't be," Pliny agreed. "But, you know what the important thing is, right?"

"…To keep living," Haymitch said, nodding. "To keep moving forward. To keep _them_ from truly winning."

"That's the spirit," Pliny said, a sleepy smile on her face. "Live for the dead, for your district and for Duke."

"And for you. You were the one who mentored me," Haymitch smiled, even in spite of the fresh trauma. "Thank you."

Only a brief hug was exchanged, but Pliny looked genuinely honoured as the pair parted.

"It was my pleasure Haymitch," Pliny assured him. "I just had a promise to keep. Speaking of promises, here's another… if you ever need me for anything, no matter what it is, you know how to reach me. I'll do whatever I can to help you out."

"Thanks. Hopefully I won't need anymore help now that I'm a victor, but if I need mentoring tips I'll keep you in mind," Haymitch stood, watching District Twelve getting nearer outside of the train's windows. "But before all that, I've got some loved ones to see."

Pliny faintly winced. She'd seen the stunt with the forcefield and she'd seen Snow venting to some of his trusted men and Bronze just how furious he was over such a thing. As always the sleepyhead merely needed to pretend to nod off in a hallway to be able to hear everything.

She had a nasty feeling that she knew what was going to happen and hoped so badly she was wrong.

"I hope you enjoy your time with them," Pliny said, moving to stand beside Haymitch. "By the way, if ever you're feeling down in the dumps and like you don't know where to go… here."

Pliny passed Haymitch an envelope that was both sealed and featureless.

"A gift from me to you. Don't open it unless you're alone," Pliny whispered. "Leave it for a bit, but… trust me. You may need it."

Haymitch didn't look like he knew what Pliny was talking about but, regardless, accepted the envelope and stuffed it into his pocket.

"Thanks Pliny," Haymitch said as the train pulled into District Twelve, the cheering crowd filling up every square inch around the train station. "Take care of yourself."

"And you too, Haymitch," Pliny said, smiling. "Until we meet again."

With a final handshake Haymitch left the train to greet the cheering crowd. The train pulled away with Pliny on it, beelining towards distant District Seven. Pliny grimaced as she looked out the window at the poverty stricken district behind her.

The sight of Haymitch embracing his mother while his little brother and girlfriend stood beside them had her stomach feeling like it was having a noose tightened around it.

"Be strong Haymitch," Pliny whispered.

Pliny stretched out and relaxed on the sofa, ready to settle down for a good sleep. Despite the tragedy she knew all too well was soon to transpire she did, at least, have one thing she could smile over. One thing the Capitol could not take away.

"I did it for you Duke. I kept my promise," Pliny whispered. "I hope you're happy, wherever you are."

Some say the wind suddenly picked up immensely, almost like Pliny was being given a positive answer.

Many more said that the wind was much worse two weeks later when Haymitch's family and girlfriend were mercilessly executed to get back at Haymitch for his stunt. It was drawn out and cruel with Haymitch helpless to do a thing about it.

In the midst of his drunken descent into depression Haymitch managed to recall the envelope that Pliny had given him. He opened it up as soon as he was sober, confused by what he saw within.

A sheet of paper with a large number thirteen and a phone number on the back.

The mess of a victor called the number, having no idea whatsoever to expect.

"Hello Haymitch," the voice on the other end said, confident and proud. "My name is Plutarch Heavensbee. It's good to hear from you. How would you feel about leaving the Capitol crush and gasping for air?"

* * *

 **Haymitch Abernathy** emerged victorious in spite of extremely severe injuries, particularly to his guts. No matter how much he would drink over the years, before and after the Mockingjay Rebellion, he can't forget the name of a single one of the forty seven children who died absolutely horrible deaths in that beautiful poisonous arena…

* * *

"I know I had my issues with Haymitch, moments where I thought I hated him… but in the end I'm glad he's alive and making some kind of recovery," Katniss said in all sincerity. "I really am."

"Say what you will, but the man's a genius and a really good mentor when he gets serious," Peeta agreed. "…Think he's going to get drunk at the party?"

"No chance," Katniss replied. She then smirked slightly. "He'll be totally wasted."

The pair walked further down the street together. It was only ten steps later when they came to the next face on the Walk of Victors. A fairly scruffy and boyish looking young women had her face imprinted into the ground. She appeared almost pug like to some degree and had her hair cut short and slightly rough.

"Lyme," Katniss noted. "You know, I didn't expect a victor from Two to be a commander in the rebellion. How do you think that started off?"

"I have no idea," Peeta said, shrugging. "Best I can guess is she might not have been a career by choice… as for how that'd even work, I don't know."

* * *

There we go, the second quell! Haymitch's Games are well known in canon as is Haymitch himself, so I thought that doing something a bit different here would be a lot of fun. It was certainly enjoyable to write and ideally you guys enjoyed reading it as well. Hope you liked seeing plenty of the victors again and all the tributes who died so that Haymitch could make it home in almost one piece. With the second Quell down we've just got around a third of the story to go. In a sense it's almost like the final stretch, so… stay tuned for more and I'll see you all in the next chapter, sooner than later! :D

* * *

 **Stats**

 **District 1:** Peridot Gaudy (8th Games), Crystal McCree (14th Games), Bronze Marley (19th Games), Crown Martins (24th Games), Dollar Dettwieller (32nd Games), Mascara Court (41st Games), Platinum Twist (44th Games)

 **District 2:** Baron Overwhill (4th Games), Runa Peace (7th Games), Olga Machete (10th Games), Rook Valiant (17th Games), Boulder Atherston (20th Games), Vercingetorix Carnby (25th Games), Dragon Batofel (27th Games), Rhyder Overwhill (39th Games), Mercy Gregor (46th Games), Brutus Gunn (49th Games)

 **District 3:** Honorius Perthshire (5th Games), Pi Orbit (22nd Games), Beetee Latier (37th Games), Wiress Plummer (47th Games)

 **District 4:** Museida Selkirk (3rd Games), Mags Flanagan (11th Games), Tide Luther (23rd Games), Librae Ogilvy (35th Games)

 **District 5:** Shunt Gaspar (12th Games), Isobel Sparks (18th Games), Crimson Flanders (29th Games), Porter Tripp (38th Games), Neon Erg (48th Games)

 **District 6:** Chassis Macalister (31st Games)

 **District 7:** Pliny Aransio (2nd Games), Fir Buzz (9th Games), Jack Tylos (21st Games), Snag Nakamura (34th Games)

 **District 8:** Woof Casino (16th Games), Paige Murphy (30th Games), Spool Nylon (42nd Games)

 **District 9:** Mizar Aldjoy (1st Games), Gwenith Rosebud (13th Games), Teff Withers (28th Games), Laurel Flamsteel (36th Games), Tabbock Summers (43rd Games)

 **District 10:** Stallion March (26th Games), Lammy Phyronix (40th Games)

 **District 11:** Bear Redfoot (15th Games), Seeder Howell (33rd Games), Chaff Mitchell (45th Games)

 **District 12:** Duke Saint-Rose (6th Games), Haymitch Abernathy (50th Games)


	52. Lyme Rabe

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Hunger Games. They belong to Suzanne Collins.

 **Note:** Time to start off another decade! Joining us for her debut is Lyme, a character that honestly I've always had a bit of a keen interest for. A D2 victor having rebel status in canon is not something I had overly expected due to how Two likes the Games and all, so it presented me a fun challenge to explain how an assumed career tribute could rise to a spot within the rebellion and work towards taking down the Capitol. Read on and see what insanity I've come up with this time, haha!

* * *

Katniss and Peeta looked down at Lyme's imprinted face once again, unsure of what exactly they should have been feeling in that moment.

"How do you think she managed to rise to the position she had by the time I met her?" Katniss asked, uncertain.

"You've got me. I guess she just had a lot of layers to who she was, layers neither of us really got any chance to see," Peeta said, sombre. "Think she survived the battle for Two?"

"I have no idea," Katniss admitted, lost. "I never saw her die. All I know what that she really was committed to the rebellion. She would've done anything to get Two on the rebels' side."

The pair held a few moments of respectful silence for Lyme, neither of them having any idea about the irregular occurrences that led to her becoming a victor… or even a tribute to begin with.

* * *

 **51** **st** **Annual Hunger Games**

 **Name:** Lyme Rabe

 **Gender:** Female

 **District:** 2

 **Age:** 18

 **Kills:** 7

* * *

"I'm never going into those damn Games."

Those were the words that left Lyme's mouth every single day since she was forced into attending Machete Ridge.

Much like Runa from decades prior Lyme had no love for the Hunger Games nor the Capitol. All she cared for was her own little village and her direct family. She didn't need much to feel content, merely that her family and home remain in one piece.

Also like Runa she'd been forcefully dragged from her home and enrolled against her will in the grand career academy. Her might and fighting instinct had simply been too great to go 'wasted'. Whether she liked it or not she was going to have to spend her life from ages twelve to eighteen in the academy.

Unlike Runa she was not doing this without any complaint. Indeed, with her having such a high pain tolerance for whipping and other such punishments, it took a long time for the academy to be able to get Lyme to do a single thing. She was content to just stand in silence or occasionally, just to mix things up a little, sit and glare.

Only when Olga accused her of being a district traitor and threatened to have a gun put to her little brother's head did Lyme comply, two years later than when she had been supposed to.

Lyme performed, but they could not make her like it. She was strong, knew the tactics of battle, was a lot smarter than she looked and even proved to be incredibly adept with a scimitar. However, she openly despised the other careers who did all of this out of greed, a desire for fame or simply to hurt people and receive no consequences for their actions. She hated several of the victors as well, for that matter.

She just wanted to go home dammit!

As fate would have it, however, Lyme ended up being given the role of the female tribute for the Fifty First Hunger Games. She'd refused, but once again Olga had simply warned her of what would befall her brother if she did not get in line and serve the glorious Capitol.

But after having much of her youth taken away by the crazy patriot's murder school Lyme wasn't going to just back down without a fight and a half! Lyme had sat in Olga's office, a vicious leer on her face and not shown any fear at all. Olga was scary, true, but Lyme thought she was pretty intimidating herself as well.

"You do that and I tell the entire nation about it during my interview. You want to be known as a murderer by that city you love so much?" Lyme asked, cold as sleet and ice. "I'm not going in that damn arena. You cannot make me, pick some other sadist who wants to risk getting killed."

Lyme left Olga's office feeling like she had managed to get herself out of the damn Games. They could name her as tribute, but the rules clearly stated she had to verbally volunteer (or have a figure of authority do it on her behalf if she were a mute) to become a tribute. Sure, she could be reaped normally, but her name was in a mere seven times. Besides, other girls wanted to be a tribute anyway.

Olga was not one to be beaten. She did not want to mentor Lyme, no question about it, but she would always do what gave Two the best chance of winning. If that meant having Lyme as a tribute due to her sheer fighting ability then so be it. The only problem was how to get her to actually volunteer.

How was she to do that _and_ not have Lyme trace a thing back to her? For once Olga didn't have a quick answer to her problem.

But like always, the Capitol certainly did. It all came to her at once four days later when she was half-watching a Capitol show about aspiring stage magicians.

One of whom used hypnosis.

"I know a magician like that," Olga smirked to herself, the plan ever so clear. "Blessed be the Capitol and… eh, tolerated be Nine."

Olga soon took out her phone and dialled up a number. Being the overall most Capitol trusted victor gave her certain perks. Perks such as the phone numbers of all the other victors across the nation.

"Hello, Tabbock?" Olga said. "I have a job for you. Do this for me and I'll ensure your tributes live past the bloodbath this year and that you'll get a twenty thousand cap payment."

Olga paused, listened to what the magician said in response.

"You only want the money? Hm, so be it," Olga said, shrugging. "I need you here in Two for just a few hours at some point in the coming week. There's a bit of an issue that you're the best suited to help me with."

* * *

Lyme arrived at the reaping with no intent to volunteer whatsoever. She got herself checked in and stood with a bored, slightly defiant look upon her face. She tuned out most of what was going on; what did it matter when she could finally get the hell away from the career academy and back home once and for all? One of the murderous brats around her could have the victor crown if they wanted it.

She didn't pay any attention to those who stood closest to her. If she did then she would have noticed that one of the other girls, a cadet who had decided to go on as a peacekeeper instead of a tribute, had made her way to stand so close to Lyme that she was practically touching her.

Right as the escort reaped a sixteen year old girl and asked for a volunteer the girl snapped her fingers.

Lyme suddenly went rigid.

She began to snarl like a feral animal.

She began to growl like a beast that had just smelled the blood of its prey.

She lunged forwards right out from the eighteen year olds section, sending more than a few other girls down to the ground in the process.

"I VOLUNTEER!"

Lyme was soon on the reaping stage, roaring and snarling like a wild beast. The burly boy who volunteered after her, Balthazar, was both amused and more than a little bit confused by Lyme's sudden ferocity.

Hadn't she always said she hated the Games? Was it all just an act or something?

He figured he didn't care, not when it meant a powerful ally on his side.

Lyme was still in a frenzy of rage, hatred and bloodlust when she was taken into the judgement building. She remained in this highly volatile state when her family tearfully came to see her off. She stayed this way as she boarded the train that would take her towards the Capitol.

She only snapped out of it once the escort snapped her fingers, having apparently forgotten to put on her make-up before dinner.

* * *

Lyme lay upon her bed in the tribute building, her mind reeling and her heart pounding horribly. How had this happened? How had she ended up here?

She'd seen the footage of herself volunteering of course, but that was exactly the problem. She couldn't remember _any_ of it. She had a few memories of the train ride, but there would be times where her memory just… stopped. Hours where she couldn't recall a single thing.

Her mentor Brutus was just as lost as she was, but had simply advised her to put all the aggression to good use whenever it showed up. Playing the Games aggressively was, in his opinion, the best way to emerge victorious.

Lyme had no memory of it, but apparently she'd been easily accepted into the pack and had gone around mocking the outliers. Or perhaps tormenting was the more accurate term? They were all terrified of her.

Lyme spent the better part of her nights trying to work out what the hell was happening to her. She rarely had a single memory of anything during the day. It was like she'd walk towards the elevator leading to the training centre and suddenly she'd be walking back out again, daylight replaced by dusk.

"Come on, remember," Lyme told herself, straining as she attempted to dig deep through the recesses of her mind. "Try harder!"

It was a useless effort. There was almost nothing that she could dig up. She remembered Olga sitting near her on the train, but everybody had been eating dinner. Hardly out of the ordinary. Olga was also there when training ended on day one, but she always greeted tributes as soon as they came back according to Brutus.

What else was there?

The most she could recall was two occasions where Balthazar had been walking towards her, everything going blank right afterwards. Was he inflicting amnesia upon her? Crazy talk for sure.

The only other thing she could remember at all was a brief image of a magician in a mask. Hadn't there been some party she'd been dragged to by some of the other cadets? 'Mandatory attendance' or something? But the magician hadn't had a typical Two accent.

Lyme sighed. She was getting nowhere and she still had another training day to get through. She wondered if she'd even be able to recall what she did in private training once the time arrived, or if it would be lost to the ether like lots of her memories had been as of late.

* * *

Lyme awoke to find herself seated with all of the other tributes aside from the pair from One. She glanced around wildly, incredibly confused and more than a little alarmed.

It was mere minutes before her private training session was to begin.

"How did I get here?" Lyme whispered, starting to shake. She placed a hand to her head, terribly confused. "What's going on?"

From beside her Balthazar reacted with the briefest showing of alarm.

"Shit, she woke up," he muttered to himself.

Before Lyme could ask him what he was talking about – and, obviously, how she had gotten here – everything faded away in an instant. Whatever Balthazar had done with his hand behind his back had banished her awareness once again.

Lyme woke up to find herself back on the District Two floor, being congratulated for earning a score of ten. Brutus poured them both a glass of soda with an eager grin on his face.

"I've gotta know, what did you show them?" he asked, eager as could be. "It must have been awesome!"

"…I can't remember," Lyme whispered, feeling genuinely afraid. "All I can remember is waking up outside the training centre with no idea how I got there. After that I think I sat there for ten seconds… now I'm here. What's going on?"

Brutus looked confused. He mulled over this, lost as to what the answer could be.

"You've got me," Brutus said, awkwardly shrugging. "By all accounts it doesn't make any sense."

Brutus patted Lyme on the shoulder, a friendly grin on his face.

"You just focus on kicking some serious ass. I'll see if I can work anything out for you," Brutus replied, crossing his heart. "If I can do anything, no matter how minor, I'll do it. That's a promise."

"Thanks Brutus," Lyme said, smiling genuinely.

Neither of them had noticed the way Balthazar had been observing their short conversation. A ten scorer himself, he was feeling very pleased about his odds in the days ahead.

He was all the more pleased for having worked out what was going on with Lyme. Hypnosis, or some variant of it. At the snap of anybody's fingers she would become a bloodthirsty monster. He didn't know how this had come to be, only that it was just how things had played out.

He couldn't call himself a victor if he was not prepared to exploit this for his own gain. Naturally, he could call himself a victor as this was his entire plan.

* * *

Lyme was in a frenzy of panic from the moment she had started going up her launch tube. One moment she'd been waiting for her interview with Caesar Flickerman, the next moment she was going up the tube to the arena above.

What the fuck was happening to her?! Where had her memories been going?!

The interview. The final night. The hovercraft ride. Even being escorted to the changing room by the peacekeepers. Not one memory amongst the lot was in her mind. It was like they'd been literally erased from existence.

Or, had the memories never even existed?

Lyme had no time to mull it over. Not when her launch plate clicked into place and she had to fight her own psyche to gain her bearings before the bloodbath started.

As Lyme fought to stabilise her breathing she and the other twenty three tributes gazed around at the arena they had been condemned to this time around. A massive Arabian city towered over them, a marketplace surrounding the silver cornucopia and a grand palace not far to the north. Outside the city walls was miles and miles of desert. It was hot, far too hot for comfort.

Balthazar was on the pedestal directly to Lyme's right. He waved towards her to gain her attention when only fifteen seconds remained on the countdown.

"Lyme!" he called.

"Yeah?" she replied, readying herself to fight.

"Let's get ready to rumble!" Balthazar exclaimed, snapping his fingers.

Lyme went rigid and began to snarl like a feral mutt. From her other side the little girl from Ekeven trembled, quickly making the choice to turn around and flee from the moment the gong rang.

Sure enough the small girl ran for her life into the market while Lyme and the other twenty two tributes charged into the fray as the bloodbath began. Lyme got her hands upon a large axe after only ten seconds. She smashed it down upon the skull of the girl from Six not even eight seconds later.

From there on in it was pure and utter carnage until the dust and sand finally settled five minutes later.

It was another year of only four careers in the pack, but Lyme was fighting viciously enough for it to be as if there were six careers all along. She gutted the pair from Eight, decapitated the girl from Twelve and smashed the boy from Four against one of the launch pedestals. All the while she kept a blank, vicious look on her face.

It was rather like she was running on auto pilot.

With her own ferocity and the brutal skills of the other careers backing her up it was simple for the pack to kill a grand total of fourteen of the tributes between themselves. The pair from One cheered, Balthazar smirked in satisfaction and Lyme just took shaky breathes in and out with blood all over her.

She needed more blood. Now.

"Time for a break I think," Balthazar muttered, lightly snickering.

He snapped his fingers and suddenly it was like Lyme had awoken from a dream. She reacted with horror and panic at the sight of the corpses laying broken and beaten upon the sand. What the hell had happened?!

…Which of them had she been personally responsible for killing?

Once again the memories were gone.

* * *

A week of the Games passed by with a further three outliers being hunted down and killed. Numerous camel mutts were slaughtered as well whenever the gamemakers released them to keep things interesting. This wasn't what had Lyme concerned though.

It was how she was still having massive gaps in her memory. She would frequently 'fall asleep' while following her alliance around only to suddenly wake up with dead mutts scattered around or a butchered tribute left to stain the sand red.

She never knew how it had happened, only that Balthazar would be cheering and the Ones would approvingly call her a true monster.

"I don't understand," Lyme muttered as the pack walked through the market area for the fifth time.

"Understand what?" the boy from One asked, bored.

"I keep losing my memories. This is a pretty big deal!" Lyme exclaimed, clutching her scimitar tightly. "You keep saying I've performed amazing kills, but I can't remember any of it. It's all _gone_."

"Well trust us, it happened," the girl from One replied. "You went crazy."

"That's exactly the problem. None of that is anything like me! Literally every 'career minded' thing I have done I've got no memories of. I don't understand… how does this make any sense?" Lyme asked, her eyes widening from distress. "This never happened before the reaping."

"…What if it did and you just forgot?" the boy from One suggested.

"Idiot. She'd remember those memory gaps as well," the girl from One huffed.

"She might not! She might have forgotten to remember them!" the boy from One insisted. "You can't forget what you remember, but she didn't remember to not forget!"

An awkward silence arose in the marketplace, nobody quite knowing what to say in response to this. Even some of the Capitol citizens who were watching the Games started to cringe.

The gamemakers sorted things out by sending in a gigantic sandstorm to split up the pack for some cheap entertainment. The Ones were sent fleeing one way, Balthazar ran off further into the market and Lyme ended up running off towards the palace all alone.

She didn't mind being alone. At least she would be able to have the silence she needed to work out what the hell was going on with her mind.

She feared she was already going mad.

* * *

Two days went by with Lyme hiding herself within the upper floors of the Arabic palace. A cannon fired during this time and several mutts came her way, each one left in a pool of its own blood.

One thing that did not happen throughout this time was memory loss. Lyme was in complete control of her mind and there was no gap in time she had a suspicious lack of memory of. It was like her problem had just mysteriously vanished.

The sandstorms came to a stop during the second night Lyme spent within the palace. She looked out at the middle eastern city, counting on her fingers how many others were left.

"Just five more to go," Lyme muttered. "Games' almost over and I still don't know what's up with me. This sucks major ass."

Lyme glanced up towards the sky, lost.

"Don't suppose anybody knows if this is just one funky, shitty allergy?" Lyme asked, bewildered.

For a few moments nothing happened. A few moments of nothing later Lyme realised something had begun to happen.

A sponsor parachute was descending from the sky and homing in towards her. Lyme opened it up with relief.

Confusion was her only response when she took out a pair of thick earmuffs from the package. She held them awkwardly, scratching her head.

"The hell?" Lyme muttered quirking up an eyebrow. "Okaaaay?"

Lyme looked over the note, hoping that it may be able to explain a few things. The few sentences written upon it told her all she needed to know, enough for her to shove on the earmuffs and secure them tightly.

 _-Sorry for the wait, been hard getting the money to be able to write this letter. Information passing doesn't come cheap. I've figured out your problem Lyme – HYPNOSIS. Any time Balthazar snaps his finger you turn into a maniac. When he snaps it again you go back to normal. On the one hand it's kept you alive, but on the other hand it's probably a violation of your human (tribute?) rights? Anyway, keep these earmuffs on and you'll be unable to hear the sound of a finger snapping. If you make it back we'll see about tracing this problem back to whoever did it and working out how to fix it. Good luck, you're doing great._

 _Brutus.-_

Lyme gnashed her teeth, her face starting to turn red. Almost like she'd been sunburnt by the arena's fake sun. She had an idea of what had caused this to happen. Or, rather, who.

She didn't know how Olga had managed this, only that she somehow did. She couldn't accuse her of doing this, not without any sort of proof. Olga had clearly been careful.

On the other hand… she could get back at her after she won in one very simple way.

Be a rebel and destroy Machete High.

She left the palace not even twenty minutes later, ready to do what it took to ensure she achieved this.

* * *

The Games ended on less of a bang and more of a whimper.

Camel mutts took out the boy from One and after this the girl from One and Balthazar hunted down the last of the outliers. Balthazar easily hacked the girl from One to pieces, thinking he'd be able to take advantage of the finger snapping trick to confuse Lyme and leave her wide open for his serrated sword.

They met in front of the palace on the eleventh day and within one minute Balthazar's plan fell to pieces, along with his absolutely broken body.

Lyme charged and, thanks to the earmuffs, did not respond at all to the finger snapping. Balthazar only realised this when Lyme was ten meters away and rapidly narrowing the already small gap.

He was only halfway towards stabbing towards her when she swung her scimitar against his neck… followed by his arms, legs, crotch, gut and then repeated the process three or four extra times just to be sure.

One could never be too careful in the Games after all.

Lyme discarded the headphones with a profound sigh of relief, more than happy the damn Games had finally come to an end.

"What a waste of my summer," Lyme muttered to herself as the hovercraft came down to collect her. "Could've been playing sports or hunting or somethin'."

* * *

Lyme was ever so tempted to tackle Olga to the ground and snap her neck the instant she saw her after the Games had come to an end. It would've been so easy to do it before anybody could react and stop her.

Instead she just spoke as little as possible, shaking her hand, nodding when necessary and acting like a good little victor. Lyme hardly even remembered what she said about 'Olga being right all along' and 'the Games not being as bad as her folks told her'.

It was less about memory loss and more that she didn't care to remember her time with Olga anymore than she really had to. She had work to be getting along with first and foremost.

Brutus was true to his word and managed to get somebody who could undo her hypnosis. He had no idea Olga surely had a hand in it and likely wouldn't have believed it anyway. Lyme didn't care, just being glad to still be alive and have her mind back to normal.

Unknown to her fellow Twos she arranged for another hypnotist, one of Spool's old friends by the name of Buckle, to hypnotise her again just in case anybody back in Two tried to bring out her bloodthirsty side again.

Anytime she heard the snap of somebody's fingers she's become even more of a rebel than she already was. An action never undone within her lifetime.

Lyme became one of the quietest and generally most reclusive of Two's victors of the fair heap they had over the seventy plus years of the Hunger Games. She wasn't loud, brash, a loyalist, outspoken in her ways or really much like the rest.

She was just a girl who had privately spoken to Mizar during the Fifty Second Games after the infamously horrific bloodbath and told him she wanted in on whatever sort of rebellious plans he had on the go.

A rebel of status within Two. Such a novel concept.

Such a vital concept for winning the war, as it turned out.

Lyme was glad she had met Mizar, very glad indeed. A friendly man with a heart of gold... and whom was quick to deduce that his wayward victor Tabbock had something to do with the whole hypnotism controvesy.

Lyme left Tabbock with a black eye that never fully faded away.

* * *

Bombs fell, screams filled the air and a terrible sight of smoke and fire filled up large areas within District Two.

What used to be the grand and famous Machete High had been reduced to burning rubble during the course of the Mockingjay Rebellion. Nothing was left of what had been Olga's pride and glory for many decades. Absolutely nothing had been spared from the volatile carpet bombs that had been dropped upon it by the rebels over one constant hour.

Lyme surveyed the scene with immense satisfaction and even let out a genuine giggly laugh for the first time she could remember. Olga had disappeared before the shit truly hit the fan and Lyme had no idea whether she was alive or not at this point.

She felt it did not matter. Either the women was dead or forced to be alive to know that everything she's worked for had been destroyed.

Lyme watched the wreckage for a few moments, contemplating what to do.

She snapped her fingers, loud and proud.

She walked away from the wreckage site two minutes later, having paused to satisfy her sudden rebellious urge to piss on the charred ash that had once been part of Olga's fancy desk within her office.

* * *

Katniss and Peeta finished their respectful silence for Lyme and, with nothing more to say other than wishes to have been able to get to know her better, continued down the street.

"You know, it occurs to me we're going to be at the fifty eighth victor soon," Peeta noted. "The year we were born."

"I guess so. Why's that suddenly coming up?" Katniss asked.

"Well… I don't know, it's just weird we've been seeing all these victors from before we were born and now we're coming up to our 'birth Games' before long," Peeta said, glancing off to the side. "Sorry, just talking aloud. Helps keep me grounded in reality."

"By all means, keep talking," Katniss assured him.

The pair exchanged a smile and swiftly arrived at the fifty second face imprinted within the sidewalk of the grand street. A bald teenager with a particularly scornful and intimidating glare looked back at them, a casual sort of fedora worn upon his head. He looked almost as vicious as a shark.

"Anchor Paddock," Katniss said, reading the name inscribed beneath the face. "The shark boy himself."

"Don't tell me he bit somebody," Peeta muttered, paling slightly.

"That's Enobaria's thing. Finnick just said this guy was particularly vicious," Katniss said, glancing sideways. "The bloodbath was 'unprecedented', whatever that meant."

* * *

There we go, Lyme leaves the arena with her life intact and her temper very much not! Hypnotism as a concept has been an ongoing sort of 'casual fascination' to me for a long time. Just the idea of having one's mind messed with and being unable to even know it… yeah, that kind of stuff is freaky and yet makes for really good story telling. With my own rather bizarre logic I felt that Olga having such a thing done to Lyme to get her to cooperate would make for a fun, if slightly chilling sort of chapter that could explain what made her go from simply hating the Games and the Capitol to taking an active role towards destroying them both. Hope you guys liked the tale we ended up getting. :) Next up, at long last, another victor from Four… and man oh man, are you guys all ready to see the Shark of Four? Stay tuned…

* * *

 **Stats**

 **District 1:** Peridot Gaudy (8th Games), Crystal McCree (14th Games), Bronze Marley (19th Games), Crown Martins (24th Games), Dollar Dettwieller (32nd Games), Mascara Court (41st Games), Platinum Twist (44th Games)

 **District 2:** Baron Overwhill (4th Games), Runa Peace (7th Games), Olga Machete (10th Games), Rook Valiant (17th Games), Boulder Atherston (20th Games), Vercingetorix Carnby (25th Games), Dragon Batofel (27th Games), Rhyder Overwhill (39th Games), Mercy Gregor (46th Games), Brutus Gunn (49th Games), Lyme Rabe (51st Games)

 **District 3:** Honorius Perthshire (5th Games), Pi Orbit (22nd Games), Beetee Latier (37th Games), Wiress Plummer (47th Games)

 **District 4:** Museida Selkirk (3rd Games), Mags Flanagan (11th Games), Tide Luther (23rd Games), Librae Ogilvy (35th Games)

 **District 5:** Shunt Gaspar (12th Games), Isobel Sparks (18th Games), Crimson Flanders (29th Games), Porter Tripp (38th Games), Neon Erg (48th Games)

 **District 6:** Chassis Macalister (31st Games)

 **District 7:** Pliny Aransio (2nd Games), Fir Buzz (9th Games), Jack Tylos (21st Games), Snag Nakamura (34th Games)

 **District 8:** Woof Casino (16th Games), Paige Murphy (30th Games), Spool Nylon (42nd Games)

 **District 9:** Mizar Aldjoy (1st Games), Gwenith Rosebud (13th Games), Teff Withers (28th Games), Laurel Flamsteel (36th Games), Tabbock Summers (43rd Games)

 **District 10:** Stallion March (26th Games), Lammy Phyronix (40th Games)

 **District 11:** Bear Redfoot (15th Games), Seeder Howell (33rd Games), Chaff Mitchell (45th Games)

 **District 12:** Duke Saint-Rose (6th Games), Haymitch Abernathy (50th Games)


	53. Anchor Paddock

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Hunger Games. They belong to Suzanne Collins.

 **Note:** At long last we reach the next victor from District Four. Sure has been a while huh? Honestly I feel like I made the gap between Librae and Anchor a bit too long, but live and learn I suppose. Anyways, Anchor! D4 careers are interesting, as I always feel like canon kinda gives us the least idea as to how they work overall which kinda leads to my whole 'sometimes they are, sometimes they aren't' way of doing things. Well, rest assured, Anchor truly is one. Read on and see what the hell this shark of a boy did in his arena!

* * *

Katniss and Peeta were silent as they gazed down at the fierce looking victor imprinted upon the ground.

"I'll be honest, this is one I don't know anything about aside his name," Peeta said, lightly frowning. "Did Finnick ever say anything else about him?"

"Hardly a thing, we had a rebellion to be talking about instead," Katniss said, casually. "Still, beside that stuff about the bloodbath he said… the 'normal narrative was overthrown' and that he was pretty divisive within Four. What do you reckon that means?"

"Like I said I know nothing about him. I'm not the one to ask," Peeta replied. "Well, if Anchor made it out we can ask him. If he didn't then I guess we can ask Annie."

"Sounds like a plan," Katniss agreed.

The pair went silent, holding a respectful silence for Anchor.

* * *

 **52nd Annual Hunger Games**

 **Name:** Anchor Paddock

 **Gender:** Male

 **District:** 4

 **Age:** 18

 **Kills:** 11

* * *

People always called me the impatient sort when I was growing up. I suppose they were right in the end as I've been unable to wait for the past week.

Unable to wait for the Hunger Games to get started.

The reaping, the train ride, the parade, the training… everything. As far as I'm concerned it was all just pointless filler leading up to the main event. I'd call it a waste of time aside from dragging out the fear in the other tributes. If they are afraid then I guess the time wasting did achieve something after all. It made it easier for me.

I sit on a chair at the side of my launch room, unable to quite find it in me to sit still. No matter how much I try I'm left bouncing my knee and having to suppress a slight shudder. One of thrill of course. This is what I've spent over half of my life getting ready for.

All the training, all the manipulation, all the nights feeling hungry, all the… well, everything really? It's all going to be worth it. It's just like my uncle Sharky Huxley once told me, the Games can fix anything.

Perhaps I should start all the way from the beginning?

I was born to a family of what the poor might call loan sharks. We'd just call it fulfilling a role Panem needs in order to function. Loans are lent and paid, but somebody has to enforce the latter part of the deal. That's what my uncle spent the better part of his life doing.

He got Tide Luther so cornered in debt that she outright volunteered for the Hunger Games to get the money she needed. Sure enough the Games fixed her problems in short order. After that it seemed like any desperate sod was willing to at least consider using the Games to grant their wildest dreams. All it would cost is a few lives of people they'd never met.

That was then.

This is now.

My family could've been rich, but over time the Peacekeepers took over debt collecting and drove us almost to ruin; they stole from us and called it their 'right'!. Since then my family and several others had to resort to the most menial and terrible sorts of jobs to get by, working alongside those we used to collect debts from to further the disgrace of it. Engine room work on ships, fishcake factory staff, cleaning barnacles off of galleons… it's no way to live.

Unlike others who were content to just whine their hearts out about it all and keep working those same shitty jobs regardless I actually took action. I must have been about seven at the time, forced to watch as that monster from One went psycho in the bloodbath and took down all those tributes at once with a grin on her face.

I don't care to recall what the monster was called. I just remember realising that she ended up winning and suddenly she was called one of the top five richest women in all of One, an already rich district.

Volunteering and winning the Hunger Games became the only possibility from that point on. I was far from the only boy in Four who thought he could handle the arena. Plenty of others beside myself trianed hard for their chance at glory.

Before me literally every single boy aside one has ended up killed. I knew I had to play it hard and smart as well.

I needed an ally.

Luckily for me I was in the company of Dolphin, a daughter from one of the other previous debt collector families. She's fine as far as girls her age go – so, my age I suppose – and I have nothing against her. I just knew that she was always a bit 'simple' and tended to just follow whatever the loudest voice in the room would say.

She was perfect for what I needed. Ever since we were little I talked to her about the idea of us becoming tributes in the Games, telling her stories of all the riches, honour and even fans that we'd get from it. I might have lied and said some shit about how we could both end up as victors if we tried to eat nightlock together if we were the final two.

Absolute madness of course, but it merely took a year or two of whispering such ideas into her ears while I trained before she agreed to join me in my quest for all the riches I could ever want. As I said, the Games can fix anything at all.

It was a process. A long, exhausting process at that. We had no academy like what the careers in One and Two have. We only had the bare minimum of supplies and our wits… ok, fine, _**I**_ had my wits. I led Dolphin through everything; sword fighting, trident throwing, wrestling, hitting the few books we had… I left no stone unturned., Anything that could help I made sure to do.

By the time we were eighteen and the reaping came by we looked like Gods of some kind. Muscular, ready to fight and not remotely afraid. The fact we ended up sparing a pair of little kids when we volunteered was just icing on the fish cake. Four was cheering for us, calling us heroes.

I won't say no to that kind of support if they feel like giving it to me.

"Three minutes Anchor," my stylist says from his spot leaning against the opposite wall.

"Thanks for the heads up," I reply.

Where was I? Ah yes, the reaping. I told my family I was as ready as I could be and that I was more than willing to risk my life to make us rich, to grant back the wealth we'd once had. I wasn't about to let Uncle Sharky's debt collecting days just be forgotten and all the rewards he earned stay out of our deserved reach.

They gave me their blessing and then it was off to the Capitol. Making the crowd at the parade love me was the easy part. The hard part was putting up with that horrendous seahorse outfit. I played my part like a good little tribute, but for a moment it wasn't just tributes I was ready to kill. Even now my stylist has no idea just how much resentment I've got inside directed right at him.

Being accepted into the careers was a formality. With me in the pack Dolphin's spot was also secured. I buddied up with them and played ever so nice, making sure to learn their names and show some interest in who they are.

Feigned interest I assure you, but it did the job just fine. Tulip, Rich, Eris and Sextus all see me as a solid kind of guy. Somebody who has their backs for at least until the top eight. Somebody they know will be able to help them in their quest to kill all the outliers.

I'm alright with them thinking that, but I've got bigger plans for this arena than what they've thinking about. I think my score of eleven speaks for itself. Dolphin got a nine and the other careers only managed eights.

"Want anything before you go?" my stylist says. "A glass of water? A cookie?"

"Nah, I'm good. I'm as ready for the arena as I possibly could be," I stand, stretching myself out and flexing my biceps for a moment. Never hurts to look good. "What do you reckon awaits me up there? I mean, aside a bloodbath of course."

"I don't know anything about the arena," he says, almost sounding apologetic. "But based on the fabric of your outfit and the waterproof nature of it… expect to see water. Probably either grand lakes or an ocean."

"Got it, thanks for the heads up," I say. I move over to the admittedly eerier launch tube. "Hey so, can I just stand in this now and save us a moment?"

"By all means go ahead," he says.

I lean against the side of the tube's interior, wondering to myself how the other tributes might be feeling. The rest of the pack are probably excited or, in Dolphin's case, hardly aware of how to feel. As for the rest, probably terrified. I don't care to think over it any further when it doesn't matter.

The tube soon closes and the platform below my feet slowly rises me to the arena above. I smile, knowing plenty of things the others do not know. They won't know even when it's too late.

The dead aren't known for having much on their minds.

I told Caesar that I was aiming to impress people in the bloodbath and show what I am made of. I'm not in the habit of breaking a promise when I make one.

Formidable muscles. Check.

Killer instinct and calm state of mind. Check.

An armada of sponsors ready to send me anything the horn of plenty lacks. Check.

A fool proof plan. Check.

A victor's crown. Not mine yet, but for all intents and purposes… check.

It's a minute or rising through darkness before I finally rise into the arena, the strong smell of sea salt hitting my nostrils. At this point I can't help but laugh a bit.

It's all too perfect.

The cornucopia is about two hundred yards away and filled to the brim with choice supplies, a silver trident leaning against the interior. Mine of course. But that's not what has me feeling so pleased.

It's the fact the arena is just a flat sandy beach that spreads out for miles and miles. Most of the sand is waterlogged and I can see some parts of it are submerged under the seawater, but other than that it's pretty open. If there are any secrets to be found out there I can't spot them from my own pedestal.

The pair from Eight stand either side of me, both shivering under the pink sky. A shame they're not able to appreciate the beautiful dawn like I am. A shame they're about to die.

Again I find myself feeling terribly impatient as the countdown ticks closer to zero. Fame and fortune are so close that I can almost taste them; they'd be closer still if the Capitol would start the countdown from thirty seconds, not sixty.

By the time the gong finally goes off I'm so impatient that I could just about kill somebody. I guess that's just another reason atop of many others why I lunge for the boy from Eight and smash his skull against his launch platform. A lethal wound for sure; he won't be getting back up from that one.

The charge towards the cornucopia reminds me of how those who owe a lot of money would helplessly run for their lives from debt collectors. It's sickening to think that I have anything in common with such people, but I've got no choice. Not when I need to be the first to reach the trident.

My powerful legs make it easy to reach the cornucopia a moment before Rich and Dolphin do. I greet them with nods, passing a sword to both of them. Rich nods and runs off while Dolphin joins me as we stand guard at the front of the silver horn.

"Alright Dolphin, just like we planned it," I give her a small smirk. "Ready to get going?"

"Yes boss," she says, saluting. It's rare that she says much else to me these days, not that I mind at all.

We play our parts in the pack for the opening minute or two. Guarding the bounty within the cornucopia is easy as can be. The opening is pretty big, but having a long weapon make sit simple to block anybody who would dare make the charge… or scare off anybody who was merely thinking about it. I don't miss the way the tiny boy from Seven runs the other way after seeing me.

The girl from Twelve, of course, doesn't change her mind. That's why she lays crumpled and bleeding at my feet not ten seconds later. Pick your battles Twelve, pick your battles.

With the arena so vast and no notable areas where supplies might be kept anywhere in sight I should have seen it coming that every tribute would participate in the bloodbath. Clearly a tactical error for plenty of these people; the area around the cornucopia has gone from a sort of waterlogged brownish cream to a gross crimson. Seven corpses have way more blood than I had assumed.

Or should I say eight corpses? I give Dolphin a nod and a certain curl of my hand. She knows exactly what this means.

She better know. I've only gone over it with her hundreds of times over the past three years of our lives.

We grab a pair of axes from inside the cornucopia and let them fly not a moment later. I'm not sure who had the better throw between us both – ego says I did, but I cannot deny Dolphin always has had a bit of extra muscle to her that I still lack, even from our days before training – but the end result is the same. Some awful squishing noises, some terrible crunching sounds and two whimpers as a pair of young adults fall down dead, each with an axe buried into the backs of their skulls.

Seems like District Two won't be getting a back-to-back win this time around. Too bad, too sad I suppose. These two really were promising, but that's exactly why they had to die. Letting them remain alive would have made the entire plan come falling down.

The Ones realise what we've done right away, taking their attention away from the boy from Five. He makes the move to stab Rich in his shoulder and run for his life. Smart boy; if this wasn't a fight to the death I'd owe him for making my job easier.

A quick and painless death will have to be enough.

"C'mon Dolphin, charge!" I roar, if only for theatrics. I have to allow myself to have at least some fun after all.

We run fast, faster than ever before. We don't slow even as I slash the throat of the boy from Three along the way. I think he might still be twitching by the time we reach the Ones. It's rather gross, to be honest.

The Ones are tough, but they're startled and furious. A combination that could only lead to mistakes. The boy from Five's luckily timed stab gives us the easy upper hand over Rich, my boot crushing his neck not long into our battle. With him down and the number advantage on my side it's easy for Dolphin and I to send Tulip down with a broken arm and missing a few fingers.

"Traitor! Traitor!" she screeches. If this is what Uncle Sharky had to put up with when he collected debts I can see why he hated poor people so much. Good thing my family won't be poor for much longer.

"I think you the word you're looking for is victor, something you most certainly am not," I say to her, bringing the trident down right into her ribcage.

She stops twitching before long. By then Dolphin finishes off the only other tribute who had still been in the area. Goldenrod yellow jacket… ah, that'll be the girl from Eight.

I can't help but wonder how the world outside the arena is responding to all of what just happened. Thanks to some fake loyalty, good timing and an admittedly fortunate arena districts One and Two have both been eliminated in the opening frenzy. I don't think such a thing has happened ever since the First Games.

I suppose some things are so nice you've simply got to do them twice.

I smirk, imagining the furious screams from One and Two. Surely there will be rage, complaints and accusations that we somehow cheated. I say let them complain, it's of no concern to me. I'm alive and I've got a Games to win.

Only one thing left to take care of.

"Hey Dolphin?" I say.

"Yes Boss?" she replies, moving towards me.

"Is it just me or is that another tribute over there? Girl from Three, you reckon?" I say.

She turns to glance at where I was pointing out a mile or two yonder to the north.

It's the perfect opening for me to skewer her with the trident. She falls to the ground, dead in an instant. Good help is hard for a debt collector to find so I'd be pretty cruel to draw it out. Good help deserves a painless way out.

I must be standing in an eerie silence for a minute or so before the Gamemakers realise the bloodbath has officially ended and start to sound the cannons. On and on they go, a lot longer than they do in most years of the Hunger Games.

Sixteen cannons fire all in all. Just eight of us left to play. I can't help but find it an amusing thought that the family interviews will be getting started not even an hour into the Games.

Sixteen dead. Just seven left to go. Already seven kills to my name.

"I don't suppose anybody could send me a can of peach soda? Kinda thirsty after all of that," I announce.

A parachute falls with the requested drink. I raise it to the nation and drink heartily over a job well done. After that performance I think I've earned a nice break. Not a long one though, not when there are seven tributes trying to get away from me.

I'm ready to go in under ten minutes. It would have been five, but the girl from Six's corpse had fallen upon a stack of gear I wanted and proved harder to move than I'd expected. Time is money and I won't have any of it until it's just me left.

"Sorry about that," I say to Dolphin's corpse. I stumble for a moment, nearly tripping over the detached head of the boy from Twelve. "You were just too powerful to keep around. Thanks though, I couldn't have taken out the other careers without you."

For the first time in so long I can't stop myself from smiling. My grin persists as I set off at a leisurely pace to the north. They can run, certainly they can, but in an arena like this I don't think they'll be able to hide.

I mean, I can see the distant silhouettes of the others almost a mile away in several directions and getting further by the moment. They can tire themselves out if they'd like, but in the end it's all the same. The loan shark will catch the debt evaders and make them pay with the only currency on offer – their lives.

"At this rate I might be out of here by sunrise tomorrow," I remark, starting to increase my speed to a light jog, leaving the bloody massacre behind me for the hovercraft to clean up.

I hope they pay the clean-up crew well. The bloodbath looks revolting; anybody who so much as touches that mess deserves a quad digit paycheck.

* * *

Katniss and Peeta finished their silence. With one last look down at Anchor's fierce gaze they began to move further down the street together. It wasn't long at all before they came to the fifty third face among the dozens that covered the sidewalk.

"I wish…" Peeta trailed off.

"Me too Peeta. I wish I'd made an effort to learn more about him," Katniss agreed.

The face that looked up at them appeared almost cheeky, perhaps even a bit boyish with plenty of attitude. The young man had short hair, a fiery look within his eyes and some particularly killer sideburns.

"What was it that Johanna said about Blight again?" Peeta asked as he gazed at the imprinted face of the fallen victor.

"Something about him 'not being much, but he was from home'," Katniss recalled. "I'll ask her what she meant by that when we get to that party."

* * *

There we go, the Shark of Four! Anchor's chapter was perhaps the overall easiest to write, or at least somewhere within the top five easiest. First person POV chapters tend to fly by swifter than most do and the fact his chapter covered not even thirty minutes in-universe may have had something to do with it. Anyway, as for Anchor himself I feel like he's a decent sort of antagonist to see the beginnings of. In a sense the 'other side of the coin' to Tide. One a gambler, one a descendent of vicious loan sharks who longs to regain lost – and ill-gotten – fortune. I feel like betrayals in the bloodbath are something that's surely happened in canon, but the idea of a massive bloodbath where one particularly strong career is able to betray his entire alliance and become a solo agent… once I had that idea I just had to write it out and put it into action. What do you think though, did it make for good reading or just come off as too big of a power move? Either way we have another canon up next, so get hype!

* * *

 **Stats**

 **District 1:** Peridot Gaudy (8th Games), Crystal McCree (14th Games), Bronze Marley (19th Games), Crown Martins (24th Games), Dollar Dettwieller (32nd Games), Mascara Court (41st Games), Platinum Twist (44th Games)

 **District 2:** Baron Overwhill (4th Games), Runa Peace (7th Games), Olga Machete (10th Games), Rook Valiant (17th Games), Boulder Atherston (20th Games), Vercingetorix Carnby (25th Games), Dragon Batofel (27th Games), Rhyder Overwhill (39th Games), Mercy Gregor (46th Games), Brutus Gunn (49th Games), Lyme Rabe (51st Games)

 **District 3:** Honorius Perthshire (5th Games), Pi Orbit (22nd Games), Beetee Latier (37th Games), Wiress Plummer (47th Games)

 **District 4:** Museida Selkirk (3rd Games), Mags Flanagan (11th Games), Tide Luther (23rd Games), Librae Ogilvy (35th Games), Anchor Paddock (52nd Games)

 **District 5:** Shunt Gaspar (12th Games), Isobel Sparks (18th Games), Crimson Flanders (29th Games), Porter Tripp (38th Games), Neon Erg (48th Games)

 **District 6:** Chassis Macalister (31st Games)

 **District 7:** Pliny Aransio (2nd Games), Fir Buzz (9th Games), Jack Tylos (21st Games), Snag Nakamura (34th Games)

 **District 8:** Woof Casino (16th Games), Paige Murphy (30th Games), Spool Nylon (42nd Games)

 **District 9:** Mizar Aldjoy (1st Games), Gwenith Rosebud (13th Games), Teff Withers (28th Games), Laurel Flamsteel (36th Games), Tabbock Summers (43rd Games)

 **District 10:** Stallion March (26th Games), Lammy Phyronix (40th Games)

 **District 11:** Bear Redfoot (15th Games), Seeder Howell (33rd Games), Chaff Mitchell (45th Games)

 **District 12:** Duke Saint-Rose (6th Games), Haymitch Abernathy (50th Games)


	54. Blight Jordan

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Hunger Games. They belong to Suzanne Collins.

 **Note:** Another canon and one whom I think was kind of underutilised in canon to be perfectly honest? I feel like me saying those exact words is becoming something of a trend at this point, haha. Anyway, Blight! Johanna claimed he 'wasn't much', but just how true was that really? Was there perhaps more to this guy than we ever learnt through Katniss' narration? I'm of the mind everybody has a story to tell and I'm more than eager to tell the tale of Blight to you all. Read on folks, I hope you enjoy this one!

* * *

"Not much, but he was from home," Katniss repeated. "You know, Johanna always did care a lot for her district… maybe saying Blight was from home was more of a compliment than either of us realised at the time?"

"Yeah, I can see that," Peeta agreed. "You know, there was one thing I did notice about Blight now that I think about it."

"What might that be?" Katniss asked.

"His hand. His left one that is, it was a fake. Saw him take it off to use as a back scratcher when we were being prepped for interviews," Peeta explained. "Not sure how he ended up losing it."

"I guess that's another mystery to add to the pile of stuff we don't know," Katniss remarked, soft and light.

* * *

 **53rd Annual Hunger Games**

 **Name:** Blight Jordan

 **Gender:** Male

 **District:** 7

 **Age:** 16

 **Kills:** 6

* * *

 **A Sting In the Tail: Five Times Blight Got Stung By Tracker-Jackers**

* * *

 **#1**

Blight was somebody who was hard to forget once he'd been met for the first time. Between his endlessly cheeky attitude, his talent for self-deprecative comedy and the boyish attitude he simply loved to dish out to his superiors and peacekeepers alike it added up to him being quite a stand-out in any room.

Naturally this sort of behaviour was not very well tolerated by the powers that be. He never did quite enough for anybody to have him killed or whipped, not technically. Naturally, the only logical thing to do was to dump him into one of the hands down most dangerous jobs his district had to offer. One that the higher-ups sincerely hoped would lead to Blight being killed, ideally before he was out of reaping age.

Removing tracker jacker nests.

Numerous nests remained from the Dark Days over fifty years prior, left as a showing of the Capitol's power. The terrible insects bred rapidly and for every nest taken out it seemed one would soon form to replace it. They were generally allowed to live undisturbed unless they were getting in the way of work and therefore the Capitol's labour quotas.

It was a sunny day in July a mere two days before the reaping of the Forty Ninth Hunger Games when one such nest was to be disposed of. The nest was atop one of the tallest trees in the forest, a massive redwood that the Capitol demanded be cut down for use in some fancy new wardrobes that were in demand in those days.

Of course, being so high up the issue was obvious; most of the disposal crew were far too big to get up that high and they lacked any tools that would work from a distance. They, along with all of District Seven, lacked one gun between them.

It fell to twelve year old Blight to remove the nest. He made it up to the top of the trees easily enough, a cheeky look on his face as he made sure to 'accidently' send a few twigs and branches to the peacekeeper observing him from the base of the tree.

"Hey! That was deliberate you little brat!" The peacekeeper shook his fist, scowling behind the helmet.

"Only if I don't like you, sir. Only if I don't like you," Blight called downwards.

A moment passed as the Peacekeeper tried to understand what he had he told. A few of the removal crew, most of them having run afoul of peacekeepers as well, started to discreetly snicker.

"…Hey!" the peacekeeper shook his fist again. "I heard that!"

"Why thank you, I'm glad that my voice is still working and at its correct volume," Blight laughed as he finally reached the nest. "Ok… careful now, nice and slow…"

Blight took a large hacksaw from his work belt and began to carefully saw through the branch. He paused once he was halfway through it, gazing downwards at his older work mates.

"Hey guys? You miiiight want to get running so you don't get tracker'd and jacker'd to death," Blight said, resuming his sawing.

The others of the removal squad and their peacekeeper 'guides' quickly vacated the area. It made it easy for Blight to speed up his sawing, no longer having a reason to be wary, and send the nest falling right down to the ground below.

The nest exploded and the tracker jackers flew away in a mad rage and panic. They'd not even realised that Blight was there in the first place.

All except one of them. The angry little bastard buzzed indignantly and made a charge right to where Blight was sitting.

Blight took one look at the incoming wasp and made a mad scramble to evade it. The wasp, of course, tracked him and intended to jack him, or failing that just sting Blight to buggary.

Blight swung through the trees like a sort of monkey with the furious tracker jacker in hot pursuit. On the ground far below they were hopelessly tailed by the rest of the disposal crew and the peacekeepers. Some wanted to save Blight and others wanted some cheap tea time entertainment. No prizes would be awarded for anybody who guessed which was which.

The haphazard and crazy chase lasted for five whole minutes before the tracker jacker finally managed to sting Blight upon his left arm. It left soon after that, if only because it had started to rain and like hell it was going to stay out in the downpour. It might die!

Blight fell not long after that, the sting all too agonizing for his young body to handle. Luck was on his side as he fell into a river that slowly flowed through the forest, slow enough for Blight to scramble out and start to wander around in a complete and utter daze.

From the perspective of his fellow removal staff and the peacekeepers it seemed like Blight was either drunk, drugged or both as he stumbled around in a mad circle. He soon eyed them the same way a cow might look at an oncoming train.

From Blight's perspective it seemed like a crowd of jelly babies standing upon an island made out of toast were giving him the evil eye.

After all, tracker jackers did cause particularly powerful hallucinations…

"Go jump off a cliff general jelly!" Blight slurred, pointing accusingly at the peacekeeper he'd been messing with mere minutes ago.

He then collapsed and entered what would be a week long coma. On the one hand his actions and success in the nest removal earned him a higher pay check and job security on the team in the weeks ahead.

On the other hand Blight was in total agony. Tracker jackers hurt like hell!

* * *

 **#2**

Four years had past since the first time Blight had been stung by a tracker jacker and a lot had changed in that time.

Not only had Blight been stung twelve more times – a record low for somebody assigned for disposal duty of tracker jackers – but at the age of sixteen he was now in charge of his own removal crew and was starting to become one of the richest youths in the district. Big stakes, big pay and all that.

He was also one of the most cocky and reckless boys from around the district, often getting himself into trouble and not just with the genetically engineered wasps. Peacekeepers were practically on a first name basis with the boy who would talk back, pull highly petty pranks and sometimes prank call the peacekeeper barracks for the simple fact he was bored.

Alas, the fact was he'd destroyed a tracker jacker nest that had almost gotten Fir into a heap of trouble just a few months ago. It was an agreed fact of Seven that local Peacekeepers wouldn't do anything that would lead to Fir being upset. She was, after all, one of them in a sense. The boy would live just so long as he didn't resort to insulting the peacekeepers' mothers.

Blight was surprisingly on his best behaviour at the reaping for the Fifty Third Hunger Games. He was a troll, but not to the point of risking execution for showing up the authorities in Seven on live television. For the half hour or so he'd be stuck in the sixteen year old males section he'd behave.

That had been the plan at least, until he noticed a massive tracker jacker hive growing upon a tree right next to the twelve year old girls section of the reaping square. He knew all there was to know about those damn bugs and their gives. At best he'd give the nest five minutes before it fell, probably not even half of that.

Only one girl had to be taken to her likely death on that day. Blight was not going to let it be over a hundred. Of course, he had to avoid being seen leaving his assigned place or he'd be in heaps of trouble.

"Cover me," he whispered to the boys around him. "I'm going for that nest."

"Gonna chuck it at the stage?" one of the boys asked, curious.

"Almost. I'm gonna get rid of it before it can hurt anybody," Blight replied.

"…How is that 'almost'?" another boy asked, moving out of Blight's way.

Blight didn't respond. He moved fast and silent, almost like a sort of clean shaven ninja, towards his goal. He moved through each section containing the younger boys right under the noses of the peacekeepers. All it took was to point out the nest for the boys to not do a thing to rat him out.

Blight didn't even react as a girl from the sixteen year old sections was reaped to her almost certain doom.

He did, however, react when his own name was drawn not even a minute later.

"I'll be there in a moment!" he called, giving a wave. "Just getting rid of this next before it stings literally all of these girls to death!"

The nation watched as the cameras focused on Blight carefully taking out a specialised sack and knocking the nest into it with a crooked branch. It seemed like the job had been taken care of and the day saved with almost no effort required.

That was when Blight noticed one lone tracker jacker had escaped falling into the sack and was practically glaring at him.

"Oh you've gotta be shitting me…" Blight muttered, groaning.

The nation went from watching in quiet awe to staring in bewilderment as Blight ran around the reaping square in a mad panic, shoving through the crowds and leaping over the barriers in all directions to try and evade the buzzing wasp. It ignored literally every single one of the hundreds of other targets in its path, as if Blight was the only thing in its world at that moment.

Blight evaded the tracker jacker for a grand total of seven minutes and ten seconds before it stung him in the back of his right leg. He collapsed moments after that, letting out one final curse to the vile mutt.

A peacekeeper stepped in to finish it off with a large fly swatter. He was soon carried to the reaping stage and dumped upon in in a graceless heap. Naturally nobody wanted to volunteer for him and so Blight's fate was sealed.

When he regained consciousness on the tribute train roughly five hours later his mentor, Jack, couldn't help but eye him in amusement. He grandly shook Blight's hand, laughing.

"You're a crazy son of a bitch, you know that?" Jack asked him, offering Blight a handshake. "You're also the fan favourite after that reaping. I think we're gonna get along just fine, you and I."

"I have that same feeling," Blight agreed, grinning widely as he shook Jack's hand. "Nice to meet you Jack… and who're you calling crazy? You're the one who smuggled a peacekeeper's taser into the arena and cheated."

"Cheating is such an ugly word," Jack said, putting on a loom of mock offense. "I prefer to claim that I took a few… creative liberties."

The pair began to laugh their asses off.

* * *

 **#3**

Blight had to admit, he had really enjoyed the pre-Games events at the Capitol. The glamorous parade, the high adrenaline training days, the verbal banter with the careers (he was sure the boy from One was actually genuinely enjoying it, change his mind) and his particularly witty interview with Caesar Flickerman… all of it ended up being experiences he had nothing bad to say about.

Well, nothing aside the fact the Hunger Games were brutal, horrific and just plain cruel. But Blight was the same as pretty much anybody from the outlying districts in that regard. It was redundant to speak of what was a given thing.

His enjoyment was partly the fact he enjoyed the spectacle of it all and how he had so much leeway in what he was able to get away with saying – so long as he didn't say 'the Capitol ducks' it appeared he could pretty much tease and troll to his heart's content, and troll he did! – but it was also for another reason. A reason that was, admittedly, oddly specific.

Being indoors and playing the role of a celebrity meant he wasn't at any risk of being stung by a tracker jacker. It was literally the longest he had gone without seeing one of those buzzing monsters since he was twelve! Since then he normally saw them at least twice a day.

He was still smiling from his 'week off' even as his launch plate finally clicked into place and the countdown to the start of the Games began steadily ticking towards zero.

It was another forest arena that year, one that was densely filled with flora and with sunlight gleaming through the canopy of the woodland. The entire place was stuck in a state of endless autumn with leaves casually falling from the trees to be blown away in the wind.

The gong rang loudly and the Games began.

The career pack of four made a charge to the cornucopia with the outliers either running away, going midway in or making their own rush for the horn of plenty. The boy from Six didn't even make it halfway to the horn before he was stabbed by the girl from Two.

Blight managed to make it to the cornucopia before most of the others did, hoisting up a backpack over his shoulders and taking hold of an axe that had been leaning against the exterior of the silver horn. He ran off before the careers could turn their attention towards him.

Halfway towards the launch pedestals he was attacked by the girl from Nine, a spear clutched in her hands. She fought hard to try and take Blight down, even managing to puncture his left shoulder.

She was, however, a thirteen year old in over her head and it wasn't hard as all for Blight to swing the axe upside her head and smash it through her skull.

It was much harder for him to try and justify the murder to himself as he resumed his retreat, even as self-defence. With how easy it had been to disarm her he knew he could've gotten away without a kill. Alas, he hadn't done so.

"Focus, focus, focus," Blight told himself as he jogged through the forest. "Ack, fucking shoulder, oooooo it doesn't tickle! This bloody hurts!"

Blight kept on moving until he physically couldn't anymore. By that time eleven cannons fired out for all living tributes to hear with a twelfth cannon firing around half an hour later.

I any normal year it was a sort of unspoken rule that the gamemakers would not bring out the mutts until the first day had come to an end. No sense losing too many tributes too fast after all. However, Blight had gotten so far from the cornucopia in such a short amount of time that he had ended up coming across one of the tracker jacker hives that filled the forests. More would spawn as the Games went by and it just so happened he'd found one that had accidently been added by a soon-to-be-fired junior Gamemaker.

Naturally, one of the tracker-jackers had been lazily hovering near the ground when Blight walked past the tree.

Of course it had.

Yet another mad chase began with Blight trying his absolute best to evade the damn insect before it could do a thing to hurt him. Alas, tracker jackers are about ten times more persistent than an average career in most cases and eventually Blight was simply unable to keep himself moving fast enough to evade the tracker jacker.

He fell down in agony from the sting to the dirty ground while the tracker jacker swooped ahead and prepared to turn around to keep the 'fun' going.

It turned out to be a lucky thing indeed that it had stung Blight at that moment. It flew on mere meters before it hit itself into the forcefield. Touching the forcefield would kill a tribute in an instant in nine out of ten cases, so what hope did a wasp have?

Blight dragged himself away in the opposite direction while babbling absolute nonsense about strawberries of friendship and something about seeing four dozen peacekeepers in flaming bikinis. Yanking the stinger out from his arm only gave the most mild of relief.

He soon passed out in a bush, motionless aside soft and dazed breathing. He would remain unconscious within that bush for the first three days of the Games. By the time he finally woke up again he saw two sponsor parachutes beside him, one with a container of sting relief cream and the other with a set of tracker jacker handling gloves.

"Ha, was that all you guys had?" Blight asked as he set on his way not long after that. "My grandma hit me harder than that when I was a baby!"

Blight did not actually have a Grandma, she having passed before he was even born, but nobody needed to know this.

All that was needed to be known was how there gamemakers had plenty more still to dish out. They _always_ had more.

* * *

 **#4**

It was a week and a half into the Games when the tribute count was knocked down to eight. Blight idly wondered what his family would say about him when they were interviewed about his progress within the games.

He wondered if they'd be sickened by the fact he'd murdered a young girl.

He didn't dwell on it much, both because he wasn't the sort to overthink things and also because he had quite a problem going on. The career pack was intact and naturally they now had half the numbers on their side. After what had happened the previous year they accepted nobody outside of One and Two, and their districts had made sure to only send in the most loyal of all the candidates they had. The pack was not going to break early this time around.

Blight knew he needed an ally. Of course, having missed a few days earlier on due to being stung by a tracker jacker had no idea who among the outliers was actually alive, only a few who weren't.

He hoped his list of potential allies wouldn't suck.

He wandered on and on without any sort of destination for over a day before he managed to find another tribute. In this case it just so happened to be the boy from Eleven.

"Greetings comrade!" Blight exclaimed as soon as he saw the boy. "Wanna be allies? There are four careers out there who need a good killing and I think if we work together one of us might be able to fuck the reaper and, you know, live."

Blight would later admit he probably should have seen it coming when the boy tried to murder him then and there.

The fact the boy had been holding a short sword soaked in blood probably should have served as a slight giveaway.

The chase lasted over fifteen minutes as Blight tore through the forest with the boy from Eleven pursuing him. Blight kept trying to sell the idea of an alliance to him as the boy closed in, only to no avail.

"Come on you silly bastard, you're gonna have to take on four careers alone if you kill me! Are you suicidal or something?" Blight asked, absolutely lost.

Eventually the boy from Eleven caught up to Blight and a particularly savage fight ensued. During the brawl Blight ended up losing his left hand after a particularly deadly swing of the boy's sword.

On the other hand the boy lost a whole lot more when Blight roughly threw him into a tree and a tracker jacker nest was dislodged.

Blight managed to evade the agonisingly stingy death of his would-be killer, but he didn't manage to evade the tracker jacker that had chased after him. It stung him in the back ten minutes later, leaving Blight to have to yank the stinger out and stumble around half-conscious.

He passed out not long after that, but thankfully not before he'd been sent some medical gear to at least somewhat take care of the stump where his hand had been.

"Nrrggghhh!" Blight bit into his sleeve as he tried to cauterize the wound. "To burn is to live! To bleed is to tell the reaper to suck it!"

The blood loss and the pain ended up making Blight pass out for a further five days. He woke up twenty minutes before a feast was called back at the cornucopia.

He didn't miss how the voice had addressed the 'final five tributes'.

A short message from Jack was all he needed after that to confirm his dread that it was just himself and the careers left.

"…I'm such a lucky bastard to have made it this far," Blight remarked. "Sure would be nice if my luck held out just a little longer."

* * *

 **#5**

The career pack made it to the feast first, all of them more than fine to kill the last outlier first and only then start on each other. They casually ate the food on offer and drank down the water, making casual conversation as they waiting for their final opponent to show up.

"What if he doesn't show up?" the boy from Two asked. "For all we know he might be laying in a coma from the tracker jackers somewhere."

"Same rules apply, no breaking the alliance until his cannon goes off," the girl from Two replied, munching on a corndog that had been one of the many things available at the feast.

The careers were fine to agree to this and returned to their discussion about hover ball to pass the time until Blight finally decided to show up. It wasn't like they really had anything else to do.

Blight was keeping them waiting, but he would swear to the fact he had a good reason. He didn't want to die, duh!

He was also gathering ammo for the looming showdown against the careers. With one hand gone he needed all of the advantages he could get to level the playing field a bit.

It was why he'd been sponsored a special sack and a long wooden pole. To most tributes a near useless combination of items, but to Blight it was all he needed to win the Games.

Well, to be specific it was all he needed to be able to acquire the ammunition he'd need to stand a chance of winning.

He was only allowed so long to stall before the gamemakers began to make trees fall to ensure he picked up the speed a little. Or, rather, a lot.

Blight arrived at the cornucopia forty minutes later, around the time the pair from One were having an argument over who was the best hover ball player between Teff Withers and Davy Beckham. One shrill whistle caught their attention.

"Hey guys, having a good Games so far?" Blight asked, amusement flickering in his eyes. "For the record Teff is the better hover ball player."

"Told you!" the boy from One sneered at his district partner. "He gets it!"

"Ignore Admired, he's an idiot," the boy from Two grunted. "It's going well enough. Yourself?"

"Eh could be better," Blight said, raising his stump. "I gotta hand it to you, the gamemakers didn't make any of it easy this year."

The careers all groaned over the terrible pun, none moreso than the girl from Two.

"I say we gut him for that pun alone," she moaned, practically offended by the awful pun.

"What's your game Seven?" Admired asked. "You're one hand down and all alone. Why reveal yourself?"

"I was driven this way by the gamemakers. Not like I had a choice," Blight said, shrugging. "Besides, I needed to be here anyway to stand a chance at winning."

"What makes you think you have a chance?" the girl from One asked, readying herself to fight with a dagger in each hand."

"Well, I'm still alive aren't I?" Blight asked, giving the girl a wolfish sort of wink.

Blight waited for the careers to make it halfway towards him, tightly gripping the sack held securely in his hand.

"Oh, and I have this too," Blight added as he tossed the sack towards the careers. "Get fucked!"

The sack practically exploded into a cacophony of buzzing and fury as the tracker jackers flew out from within in one furious swarm. The girl from Two was overwhelmed instantly and stung to a terrible death about three instants after that. The pair from One screamed and wailed as they, too, were left to the mercy of the tracker jacker swarm. Neither lived to see the start of another minute.

The boy from Two was the exception. Ferrus had the good sense to run from the moment Blight through the sack, even before he knew what was contained within. He had been far enough away to not take the brunt of the swarm like his bloated, deceased allies had.

He was, however, still in range of the nasty insects.

As it turned out, Blight was as well.

Both boys suffered several stings before the swarm flew off into the ether, recalled by the gamemakers to avoid a complete wipe-out situation. The nation watched as the pair staggered around in a complete trance, taking swings and swipes at things that were not there.

The boys didn't see the lack of anything that the nation did. They believed they were fighting against disco raptors that only spoke in morse code as the sky turned into fire around them. It wasn't long before the 'fight' came to an end, the two teens collapsing to the ground in a dying daze.

One sting from a tracker jacker was bad, but anybody could tell you that five stings was an insane amount to suffer.

Ferrus was far bigger and bulkier than Blight was, so the poison of the stings wouldn't affect him quite as fast as it would to Blight.

Blight was smaller and lacked a left hand, but he'd been stung over a dozen times by these terrible wasps in his lifetime. He'd built up something of a resistance to the force of the stingers.

Both boys lay dying and absolutely out of it as the stingers did their worst to them. In all the panic and pain Blight managed to tear out two of the stingers before, like Ferrus, he passed out.

This was all it took to ensure that the cannon wasn't for him.

Blight awoke a total of two weeks later, the effects of the venom finally out of his system. The first person he saw was Jack, the thief having stopped by to check on him. The pair exchanged identical grins and a hi-five.

"Blight, I take back what I said on the train," Jack said. "You're not a crazy son of a bitch… you're _**THE**_ crazy son of a bitch!"

Blight let out a loud laugh, feeling more alive than he had in weeks.

"Don't forget ridiculously attractive. The world needs to know that part," Blight said, still laughing.

* * *

"Rest in piece Blight," Peeta whispered. "You know, seeing Blight's portrait down there… it makes me realise how lucky I was."

"How do you mean?" Katniss asked. "As in, specifically."

"I hit the forcefield too. I'm only still here because Finnick was there to save me," Peeta gazed down at Blight again, bereft. "It's just too bad Finnick wasn't there for Blight as well."

Katniss gave Peeta's hand a comforting squeeze. They remained holding hands as they made their way to the next victor immortalised on the long street.

The face of an awkward looking boy stared back up at them. His mop top of hair was somewhat stringy, and he almost seemed a little startled by something unknown. His smile seemed strangely wide, as if he was trying to force a look of coolness.

"Bentley," Katniss read. "The 'male morphling' I called him. How could I not know his name?"

"In fairness he didn't really say his name to us. We were… more occupied with our own lives," Peeta said, squeezing Katniss' hand.

"I guess so," Katniss paused to look at the sky, wistful. "But… you'd think we'd have at least heard the name of the most famous rapper in Panem once or twice over the years. That diehard fan of his won only two years before we did, and we all know she loved to chatter about him."

* * *

Tracker jackers have always been a thing of this series that have both intrigued and discomforted me. Naturally it was only logical to have a chapter where they play a central role. The Capitol may leave them in the districts, but it strikes me as likely they'd want nests removed if they are slowing down work. From there the concept of removal crews and thus Blight's backstory fell together perfectly, just like dominoes. Hope you all liked reading about the cheekiest victor from Seven and all the trouble he got himself into, and directly caused. It was a lot of fun writing this crazy chapter, haha. Next time we visit Seven things won't be quite so fun… but until then, stay tuned for the next victor. Time for D6 to show us what they're made of once again! :D

* * *

 **Stats**

 **District 1:** Peridot Gaudy (8th Games), Crystal McCree (14th Games), Bronze Marley (19th Games), Crown Martins (24th Games), Dollar Dettwieller (32nd Games), Mascara Court (41st Games), Platinum Twist (44th Games)

 **District 2:** Baron Overwhill (4th Games), Runa Peace (7th Games), Olga Machete (10th Games), Rook Valiant (17th Games), Boulder Atherston (20th Games), Vercingetorix Carnby (25th Games), Dragon Batofel (27th Games), Rhyder Overwhill (39th Games), Mercy Gregor (46th Games), Brutus Gunn (49th Games), Lyme Rabe (51st Games)

 **District 3:** Honorius Perthshire (5th Games), Pi Orbit (22nd Games), Beetee Latier (37th Games), Wiress Plummer (47th Games)

 **District 4:** Museida Selkirk (3rd Games), Mags Flanagan (11th Games), Tide Luther (23rd Games), Librae Ogilvy (35th Games), Anchor Paddock (52nd Games)

 **District 5:** Shunt Gaspar (12th Games), Isobel Sparks (18th Games), Crimson Flanders (29th Games), Porter Tripp (38th Games), Neon Erg (48th Games)

 **District 6:** Chassis Macalister (31st Games)

 **District 7:** Pliny Aransio (2nd Games), Fir Buzz (9th Games), Jack Tylos (21st Games), Snag Nakamura (34th Games), Blight Jordan (53rd Games)

 **District 8:** Woof Casino (16th Games), Paige Murphy (30th Games), Spool Nylon (42nd Games)

 **District 9:** Mizar Aldjoy (1st Games), Gwenith Rosebud (13th Games), Teff Withers (28th Games), Laurel Flamsteel (36th Games), Tabbock Summers (43rd Games)

 **District 10:** Stallion March (26th Games), Lammy Phyronix (40th Games)

 **District 11:** Bear Redfoot (15th Games), Seeder Howell (33rd Games), Chaff Mitchell (45th Games)

 **District 12:** Duke Saint-Rose (6th Games), Haymitch Abernathy (50th Games)


	55. Bentley Corduroy

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Hunger Games. They belong to Suzanne Collins.

 **Note:** Back to District Six for the first time in basically ages. They sure can't seem to get the hang of this thing called a 'winning streak', huh? …Or can they? We shall see! In any case, the male morphling is somebody I've kinda had an odd attachment to. Can't explain it, aside perhaps the fact he was one of those in on the rebels plans despite being a druggie and thus was clearly trusted to some notably degree. In short, he's somebody who I felt had a story to be told… and let me tell you guys, if you came looking for a Hunger Games fic starring a white rapper then you came to the right place! Enjoy~!

* * *

"So, rapping… dare I ask what that even is?" Peeta asked, more than a little lost.

"Honestly I have no idea either. I think I heard some new rapper on the radio the other day and I still don't know what it is," Katniss admitted. "I just know that it's seriously not for me."

"Was it really that bad?" Peeta asked, curious.

"Yes, it seriously was," Katniss replied, deadly serious. "Just picture this… a vague sort of rhythm and lyrics about grooslings and bullets."

Peeta couldn't help but shudder.

* * *

 **54** **th** **Annual Hunger Games**

 **Name:** Bentley Corduroy

 **Gender:** Male

 **District:** 6

 **Age:** 16

 **Kills:** 3

* * *

Much of District Six is filled with slums, gang warfare, drug dealing, pollution and the worst of crimes one can commit upon another human happening daily in dark alleys. If you're lucky enough to avoid all of those dreadful things it probably means you're either wealthy enough to live at the uptown garages, or have skills that grant you a job that area.

Bentley was one of the latter group. A true natural with anything relating to cars, especially their engines, he'd easily gotten himself a well-paying job working on broken cars that the Capitol demanded be fixed for its citizens. It made him enough money to have his own place to live and even his own motorbike of somewhat questionable quality.

It didn't make Bentley happy though. His head was often in the clouds as he worked, more or less on autopilot. He wasn't happy to just work on cars day in, day out.

He had much bigger dreams than that.

"Back to work Corduroy!" his boss, a man most only referred to as Roar, would often, well, roar at him. "If you keep our clients waiting you're out of here!"

"Yes Boss," Bentley would always reply, meek and anxious.

Roar was much like all who spent any amount of time around Bentley, up to and including his family. He and they had no idea as to why Bentley was often daydreaming and wishing for more. It wasn't a sign of the boy being stupid or ungrateful, merely that he was unfulfilled.

Bentley wanted to be a rapper. He just assumed, correctly at that, people would tell him it was a stupid ambition and to forget all about it, perhaps in a way far more severe and filled with swearing.

By day Bentley would work quick, quietly and often be caught daydreaming while he worked.

By night Bentley would sneak out for as long as he could get away with and, while wearing his masked costume, would do his best to get his act out there.

Dressed in a sparkling jacket and shiny pants with a gas mask placed over his face, nobody could forget the unique appearance of DJ-CONCORD-Z. They could never forget his rap songs either.

Contrary to what one might expect this was because the raps were all catchy and actually well performed. Bentley wrote them all himself and never performed anything aside the best work possible.

Even the peacekeepers would simply stand back and not intervene as DJ-CONCORD-Z performed for the crowds. Well, at least not until some sort of drunken shenanigans happened and, this being rap, they always would.

Them being peacekeepers, however, they were fine to let DJ-CONCORD-Z go free provided he give them a monetary bribe.

It was the night before the reaping for the Fifty Fourth Games when Bentley, as he often did, had gotten into costume to perform for his fans. None of them knew who he was behind the gas mask, not even those who had mocked and belittled him in his day job.

None of them knew that the garage worker with a spacey attitude had written up an all new song to perform.

"What is up with ya'll tonight!?" Bentley yelled, quickly getting into character as DJ-CONCORD-Z. "Is my peoples having a good time?!"

The crowd screamed their approval and, of course, that they were having a good time. DJ-CONCORD-Z cupped his ear, as if to say he hadn't quite heard them. He smirked, giving a double thumbs up as he heard the cheering get even louder.

"There be the sound I love!" DJ-CONCORD-Z exclaimed, raising his arms up and clapping loudly. He took out his microphone, tapping a finger against it to check it was working fine. "Is all ya'll ready for music most grand?!"

With a scream of eagerness and, to some degree, desperation for escapism from the typical cruelty of life in District Six, DJ-CONCORD-Z kicked a pair of particularly aged boom boxes into life and began to rap his heart out.

It was an all-new song he'd come up with just a day prior while watching a mandatory broadcast of some terrible moments in past Games, all recapped for the Capitol to fondly recall and the districts to watch in terror.

Fear and misery always did seem to give him plenty of inspiration.

 _There's a day when all hearts will be broken_

 _When a shadow will cast out the light_

 _And our eyes cry a million tears_

 _Help won't arrive_

This was as far as DJ-CONCORD-Z got with his rapping before one member of the crowd, tipsy from the pre-show warmup, threw a bottle at one of the others in the crowd. That guy, in turn, punched the first. In moments a brawl had broken out in the crowd that was only getting worse, thus forcing the peacekeepers to move in and quickly resort to police brutality.

In a word, the performance was ruined.

"I guess imma have to sing the rest of the song another time," DJ-CONCORD-Z said with a heavy sort of heart. "Peace out for all of ya'll and good luck at the reaping my mans and womans!"

With that being said DJ-CONCORD-Z sped off into the night, the loud brawl fading away into a gradual silence behind him. It was always a shame when that sort of thing happened and his newest rap was cut-off midway.

It was alright, really. He could always just try again in a night or two. Maybe even fine tune the lyrics a bit to make the next performance even better. Perhaps get a few extra Caps more than he usually did.

The reaping ruined all of his plans when the escort pulled his name out of the reaping bowl the very next morning.

* * *

It was clear from the start that Bentley was not going to be among the strongest of tributes, whether from Six or Panem as a whole. In fact, he was likely in the bottom quarter. Fixing up cars was unlikely to be of any use in the arena and the only particular skill Bentley possessed was being able to run pretty fast.

The escort deemed him as a useless tribute in under ten minutes and apologised for pulling out a 'lousy reaping slip'.

Bentley did, however, have one other card to play. He wasn't a fighter nor a thinker, but he was certainly a performer. The showbiz aspect of the Games was something he knew he could play into. He was, after all, the famous DJ-CONCORD-Z!

Too bad nobody else seemed to believe him.

"That's impossible. You look nothing like him," his district partner choked out, already on withdrawal from morphling.

"Technically nobody knows what he looks like because of the gas mask," Chassis added, tapping his chin thoughtfully. "Maybe if we could put a gas mask on him we'd know for sure?"

"Oh, honestly. Bentley is pathetic and useless, a true fool amongst fools already amongst idiots. How could he be a rapper so talented that even the Capitol has a few people taking notice?" the escort asked, shaking her head. "Oh, no offense Bentley."

"None taken, I guess," Bentley replied. "But seriously, I am DJ-CONCORD-Z! I could do a rap to prove it right now."

The escort did not listen, simply calling Bentley a liar who would stoop low enough to rip off the raps of a hard working young man. She dragged Chassis and the female tribute, Violetta, out of the carriage to start off the mentoring process away from the 'liar'.

Bentley could only sigh to himself. While performing in a costume had sounded like a fun gimmick at the time, he was starting to see the fact he'd never shown his face was pretty damn stupid.

"Well shit."

* * *

Training was not much fun.

Bentley loved to be the centre of attention, but only if the attention was good. Cheering and a grand applause was what he lived for. Not so much to be mocked and belittled for days on end. The career pack had heard him trying to convince the pair from Seven that he was a famous rapper, simply out of costume.

They zeroed in on him right away, all laughing and mocking him. Whether it was insults over rapping in general or taunting him for trying to take credit for somebody else's fame it all wrapped back to the exact same thing.

Bentley was being pushed to the edge and not getting much time at all to focus on training. All he could really display was how he was a really fast runner. Other than that the most he could do was haphazardly try to swing a knife around.

He offered to perform a rap for the gamemakers. They refused on the grounds that, whether it ended up being good or bad, it was not a skill their score system was capable of judging. Bentley had to settle for running laps, poorly displaying knife fighting and scoring twenty seven percent on an edible plants test.

Only barely enough for a score of four.

Violetta had managed a score of nine, a shockingly high score for a tribute from Six, and thus was who the escort practically ordered Chassis to place his attention towards saving. She was the only logical candidate they had, drug withdrawal or not.

Chassis watched the escort talking with Violetta about tactics of a rather ambiguous value and glanced over to where Bentley was sitting. The boy sat hunched over on the sofa, thoroughly miserable. Chassis made his way over before Bentley could reach for a half empty wine bottle left on the table beside the sofa.

"You won't be able to prove to anybody that you're DJ-CONCORD-Z if you get yourself wasted," Chassis said, taking the bottle away.

"Wait, you believe me?" Bentley asked, his eyes slightly widening.

"I'm not sure either way, but we could still get you some sponsors out of it. Either you're honest and get tons of sponsors, or lying and still get a sponsor or two. No downside for us to run with this idea," Chassis said, a sly sort of smirk crossing his face. "Don't give up yet. I never did and look at me now. Know what I am?"

"Uh… kind of mad?" Bentley guessed, shrugging uncertainly.

"Obviously, but I'm also alive," Chassis declared. "You can be to if-."

"Chassis, get over here!" the escort screeched. "Your potential victor needs some mentoring! Do I have to do _all_ the work for your team?"

Chassis promised to resume the talk with Bentley later on and made his way over to help Violetta with whatever it was that she needed. He wasn't going to neglect one tribute to favour the other; he was all about giving both tributes under his mentorship an equal, fair chance.

It was what Abe always did, even when he was such a different man back when he started mentoring during the First Games.

Chassis glanced at the portrait of his late mentor placed grandly upon the wall of the District Six apartment. He'd make him proud and bring home a victor!

One day he would. One day…

* * *

Chassis had told Bentley that his best chance to gain support and sponsors was to blow the crowd away with an excellent interview. To that end there was really just one thing he had to focus on doing.

Proving to the nation, without the aid of his iconic costume, that he was DJ-CONCORD-Z.

He was the twelfth to be interviewed, just as every single male from Six had been in the previous fifty three years of the Hunger Games. He recalled everything Chassis had told him, everything about how to properly drop a bombshell and lead the audience on by sheer fun and charisma.

Bentley stammered for a brief moment and went all in, declaring himself to be the famous rapper.

Caesar was willing to give him the chance to prove himself, costume or not. He got the audience to quieten down and let Bentley perform a few raps. Having written them to begin with Bentley rapped away a few lines of songs about cars, caffeine, mutts and destiny.

Of course, the problem was quickly apparent. Several of those in the audience claimed that Bentley could simply have memorised the songs, practised to make his voice sound somewhat similar and then used that to fake the identity of the masked rapper.

"So, how should I prove that I really am DJ-CONCORD-Z?" Bentley asked, slightly desperate.

"Why not free style a few lines for us?" Caesar suggested. "You still have two minutes."

Bentley was more than up for the challenge. Finally feeling in his element he leapt up, assumed a 'street' sort of pose and began to rap out a few lines for the nation to listen to.

 _May I have your attention please?_

 _I'm not afraid (I'm not afraid)_

 _To learn to fly,to learn to fly,_

 _Everybody, everybody_

 _Come take my leg, come take my leg_

 _We'll walk through Panem together, through the storm_

 _Whatever weather, cold or warm_

 _His eyes are mighty, hands vicious, ears are rough_

 _There's food on his jeans already, mother's stew_

 _He's nervous, but on the surface he looks calm and ready to learn to fly,_

 _But he keeps on forgetting what he wrote down_

Bentley took a bow and retook his seat. Some of the audience still clearly thought he was lying, some were muttering and whispering out of uncertainty… and some were smiling broadly, having been convinced that Bentley truly was the rapper of legend.

That or they just liked the freestyle rap of the 'liar'. Either way it seemed like Bentley had managed to get a few sponsors on his side for the Games ahead. For one wonderful moment Bentley felt on top of the world!

The moment ended swiftly when the boy from One, who had hung back to watch the outlier's interviews, gave him a terrible leer and drew a finger past his throat.

"See you in the morning," the boy said, sneering. "Sweet dreams Six."

Bentley had dreams that night, but they were anything but sweet.

* * *

Bentley shivered from more than just fear when he was launched into the arena the next morning. Indeed, he couldn't help but wrap his arms around himself and shudder quite visibly.

After all, it was a fairly cold arena that year. Perhaps little in comparison to the horrible arena of the Fifty Seventh Games but cold nonetheless.

It was a snowy tundra that the gamemakers had thrown the tributes into that year, complete with a massive looming mountain and a sunset that would never end. The snowy landscape stretched on for miles with snowfall that just wouldn't quit. The youngest of the tributes were already sneezing and chattering their teeth from the cold as the countdown ticked closer to zero.

Bentley took the time to wave to the cameras, trying to play himself up for the audience a bit. To them it was all 'just a show' after all. Maybe it would get them to sponsor him an extra layer of clothing, just maybe.

Bentley was so faraway into the clouds with thoughts of fear, whimsical lyrics for future raps and even wondering how everybody back home was faring that he didn't realise the gong had gone off. Not until three precious seconds had gone by.

Bentley ran into the fray, hoping to be able to grab something for himself in all of the chaos going on. He'd even settle for a small box of matches or a few slices of bread.

Instead Bentley misjudged his footing halfway to the horn and fell over to the ground. A scream filled the air, louder than the other screams going on, right before he felt something drop onto him. He remained perfectly still as the object on his back went still and heavy.

He didn't dare move when he felt sticky blood starting to leak from the object – a human corpse – down into his thick cargo pants.

He didn't move even when he started to wonder if something more than just blood had gotten around his leg. He didn't want to think about what it may have been.

He hardly dared to breath when somebody moved right next to him, dragging a large scythe along behind them. If his face hadn't been pressed against the snow he might have been unable to hold back a sob.

Somehow the boy from One was right beside him and had not noticed he was alive. He had, however, clearly noticed another tribute. One swing, one short scream and suddenly something else fell on top of Bentley.

More blood soaked into his pants.

Eventually the battled stopped raging on and the last of the shouts, cries and screams faded away until only the howl of the frosty wind remained. Bentley lay frozen in fear – and, admittedly, the cold – as the careers exchanged high fives and fist bumps. All four of them had survived the opening bloodbath.

As Bentley lay still as the corpses upon him the cannons began to fire. Overall twelve tributes had not managed to survive the bloodbath.

It occurred to him that he'd not quite done so yet either. He was still at the heart of what was going to be the career pack's main base.

"That was awesome!" the boy from One exclaimed.

"Got that right! Okay, how many did we get?" the girl from Two asked. "I killed three."

"Same," the boy from One added proudly.

"Just two," the girl from One grunted.

"Same here," the boy from Two muttered. "Guess that means the other two were killed by outliers."

"Shame I couldn't kill the stupid rapper," the boy from One grunted. "Fucking kill stealers."

Bentley fought against the urge to piss his pants from terror. Twelve cannons had fired, but that meant an extra body whose owner was not dead… himself. All it would take would be the careers taking note of this and driving a blade into each body to be sure they killed the last one.

Bentley lay in agonising fear for the longest hour of his life, terrified that each second that went by would be the one when the careers realised there was an extra corpse laying around than there should be.

The time never came to pass. The careers sorted through a bunch of the supplies, geared themselves up to go hunting through the tundra and, after a long argument that led to the rat faced girl from Two being assigned to guard duty, set off to hunt down the other tributes.

Having only one career to deal with was better than having all four, or even more in some years, but Bentley still knew he had no chance in a fight against the girl from Two. He had no clue what to do aside hope she didn't start to come for him.

Or, worse, wonder why the hovercraft was not coming in for the bodies.

* * *

Bentley was weak, but had luck on his side just this one time.

The girl from Two had been up for a lot of the night, too excited to sleep before the Games she'd been training for throughout the past decade, and had nodded off from fatigue. Bentley heard her snoring, but didn't dare get up.

Not until a few minutes of snoring passed by, proof enough that she was sleeping.

He almost instantly tripped down from the intestines of the girl from Twelve that were tangled around his left leg. Somehow he held back a sickened scream and got his bearings as he surveyed the carnage.

It was like a butcher shop. He could see eleven corpses littering the ground, the white snow now a terrible shade of crimson. No deaths had been pretty, all of the fallen had clearly suffered terribly before they passed away.

Bentley wondered who amongst them had been butchered by the sleeping girl from Two.

He didn't waste any time. The stringy haired boy crept past the girl from Two and began to scoop up supplies from within the cornucopia (in the process finding the missing twelfth corpse, Violetta's, right at the back of the horn). Bentley hardly paid any time to what he was stuffing inside the thick burlap sack, only that he filled it quickly. Before long he crept out of the silver horn once again, a sleeping bag over one shoulder, the sack over the other and a dagger in each hand.

Bentley observed the sleeping girl from Two, wondering if he should place both daggers in her throat.

With a shake of his head Bentley turned and walked away from the horn of plenty. His walk turned into a frantic run once he was out of the immediate vicinity. It was just as he'd said in the eighth rap he'd ever written.

DJ-CONCORD-Z was not a murderer.

In fact, as he wandered aimlessly away into the snowy wasteland he began to rap about it.

 _No killer, no killer, I ain't-ain't a killer_

 _Take my hand, view the land, what-what not a killer_

As Bentley continued to run and rap towards what he hoped was safety several of those watching began to think that maybe, just maybe, Bentley really was who he said he was.

So much so that, three hours later, he was sponsored a pair of shiny purple pants, just like the ones he wore in his performances back home.

Just like them, except snow proof. This and the fact they had no blood soaked into them at all had Bentley quick to change into them. Just wearing them made him feel almost like he was a step closer to home. To the life he'd been taken from.

* * *

With the endless sunset it was near impossible to tell how much time went by except by counting how many times the anthem had been displayed. By day five nine tributes were still alive and Bentley was amazed by his luck.

The careers hadn't found him yet.

They had to have known he hadn't died – he'd not been in the first anthem after all – but he had a feeling the boy from One would be trying extra hard to hunt for him. He spent his days hiding away in tunnels dug down into the snow, huddling in his sleeping bag for warmth with the holes covered by a hasty covering of snowy slush.

Each day Bentley would rise from his previous den to find a new place to hide, never wanting to linger around lest somebody find him. He sincerely doubted he could win a fight and so resolved to just find some way to survive without needing to fight people.

Technically Lammy had done this, so perhaps he could too…?

Still, doing nothing was ironically against the admittedly few rules. Only Pliny had ever gotten away with that plan. That was why Bentley played towards the showbiz side of the Hunger Games and would perform a rap each day that he was in the arena, so long as the coast was clear.

On the first day it was about blood.

 _It dripped, it dropped, it messed up the shop!_

On the second day it was about mutts.

 _The teeth bruise me, their eyes use me, they just wanna abuse me!_

On the third day it was about war.

 _In the sun or in the rain, the pain goes on again and again!_

On the fourth day it was about clowns.

 _Red nose, wanna leave her, big shoes, rather date a beaver!_

And on the fifth day it was about survival.

 _Live, breath, it's all in the mind! Don't get cocky, it's gonna get rocky!_

Bentley's rap was interrupted when a brief flicker of movement caught his eye atop a nearby snow hill. He practically dove into his latest borrow, hastily covering up the entrance with slush and hoping he'd not been seen.

The multiple sets of footsteps and the raised voices told him the obvious. It was the careers. They'd not seen him, but all it would take for them to find him would be to step upon his burrow or listen for his panicked breathing.

"The footsteps end here," the girl from one said.

Bentley froze, metaphorically of course. Various curse words flooded his mind.

"End? How? What, did somebody die here and the hovercraft took them?" the boy from One asked, doubtful.

"Well, the ground looks disturbed. Maybe?" the girl from One replied, shrugging.

Before anything more could be said a howl had filled the air. Snow wolves, that year's most vicious variety of mutts, had arrived and were all growling hatefully.

"Look alive guys!" the boy from Two yelled, eager for a fight.

Bentley could only cower in his snow den as he listened to the battle raging on above him. The screams of human and mutt, the clangs of metal blades and a few dying whimpers were all he could focus on.

A cannon boomed throughout the arena.

Eventually the growling faded and with it so did the footsteps of the career pack. Even so, Bentley did not come out of hiding for over twenty minutes. Only when he was certain the pack, both of them actually, were gone did he emerge from his snowy burrow.

He was greeted by a sight of blood and sacrifice. Eight dead snow wolves and the girl from Two, dead eyes staring at nothing and horrible bite marks all over her body.

"Shit," Bentley muttered, a wince filling his face. "Maybe stabbing her when she was snoozing would've been a better fate?"

With nothing else to do Bentley quickly took all of the useful gear from the career girl's corpse and ran off in the opposite direction that the trio of human footprints – alongside the seven sets of wolf footprints – led, eager to evade any potential combat.

Bentley did not know it at the time, but his rapping had been really enjoyed by the Capitol and the gamemakers had thusly decided to keep him around a little longer. If unleashing some wolves would spare him and doom one of the four careers then so be it.

Why would they lose the outlier bringing in the most ratings and money?

Bentley spent the night huddled away in a cave. He was miserable, but not quite out of it yet.

The fact he'd been sponsored a snow proof version of his fancy, shiny DJ-CONCORD-Z jacket from outside the arena had kept his spirits from reaching rock bottom.

More people appeared ready to believe that Bentley was, in fact, the famous rapper.

* * *

By the time a week had gone by and day eight was nearing its end only six tributes were still alive. Bentley, the three careers and the girls from Five and Eight. With both of the latter tributes being unusually bulky and well fed before the Games it had Bentley feeling like defeat and death were certain.

The best he could do, he thought, was to delay the inevitable slightly.

Climbing up the snowy mountain seemed like a good way to go about accomplishing that.

It was a day of climbing and three raps before he had even gotten halfway up. His snow proof outfit held away the worst of the cold and kept his energy high, but it was tempting to just give up. So very tempting.

The memories of the bloodbath, the blood on his legs that was not his own, the intestines and all the horrors after the first few hours wouldn't leave him alone.

Bentley paused to take a break at the base of a cliffside midway up the mountain, panting hard. His breath was fully visible to the naked eye.

"Cold, cold, cold…" Bentley muttered, shaking a bit. "…I can do this. I can still do this. No blood on my hands yet."

What happened next was often shown on any typical broadcast of a 'top ten funniest Hunger Games moments' sort of show. The girl from Five had been trying to ambush Bentley and carefully climb down the cliffside to slit his throat.

Instead, she slipped and fell down to the ground headfirst. She broke her neck not even two feet from where Bentley had been sitting.

"Whoa! What the actual fuck?!" Bentley yelled, recoiling from the body beside him.

District Five wailed, Bentley tried not to cry then and there, the Capitol laughed and in moments – after taking the girl's supplies of course – the rapper was quickly on his way higher up the mountain, unwilling to sit with a dead body.

He began a freestyle rap to try and take his mind away from what had just happened.

 _Gravity's harsh, wouldn't wanna rage her_

 _She gots a big temper, you gotta evade her_

 _Falling hard, wicked fast_

 _No escape, you can't last_

Bentley had nowhere near the same level of sponsor money that the careers did, but from the mentor control room Chassis noticed that he almost had enough to send Bentley a few more items.

Items that would complete him.

He just needed to hold on and keep living through the nightmare for another day or two.

* * *

Bentley reached the highest parts of the mountain two days later, all worn out. A nap in his sleeping bag didn't help much.

Mainly because he thought he was officially done for.

The girl from One had been killed – unknown to him it had been from mutts – but this still left the career boys and the bulky girl from Eight. All three were on the mountain by this point. They were lower down, but it wouldn't be long now until they would start to narrow the gap and close in on him, up to the moment he could no longer run away.

Bentley sat in silence upon the peak for a while, scared and alone.

Three hours passed before he finally stood up. He paced a little before he gazed up at the sky, hoping a camera was focusing on him.

"Hey, Chassis? …Let's be honest here, I don't think I'm going to make it. The others are too strong and I'm… just me. Just Bentley," he sighed, almost in acceptance. "I guess I did good to make it so far when everybody called me a fool and a liar, one with his head in the clouds."

Bentley started to pace as he spoke. He didn't know just how many people were focusing their gave upon him.

"I only have one request left. I mean, besides my parents not forgetting about me," Bentley came to a stop and looked up towards the sky. "I wrote this new song before coming here, but I never got to perform it in full. Think you could send me a microphone? I want to let everybody hear how it was going to end before I'm gone."

Truthfully Bentley did not expect anything in response. He assumed he'd just have to sit down and wait for death to take him, whether it was a tribute catching up to him or a horrible mutt.

His iris' slightly shrunk when the sonar of sponsor parachute began to chime. Bentley could only stare in sheer awe as a microphone descended into his hands and a pair of boom boxes landed down, one on either side of him.

"Whoa," Bentley remarked. His amazement only grew when he saw the final parachute coming in behind the rest. "Oh my… he really got it… YES!"

From above the parachute came down right into Bentley's outstretched hands. To Bentley it was a priceless treasure.

It was a gas mask, just like the one he always performed in back home.

Bentley wasted no time in switching on the boom boxes, turning the microphone on to maximum and putting on the gas mask. The music began to play, loud and proud, while the nation collectively came to one stunning realisation.

Bentley had been telling the truth all along.

He really was the legendary DJ-CONCORD-Z all along!

 _There's a day when all hearts will be broken_

 _When a shadow will cast out the light_

 _And our eyes cry a million tears_

 _Help won't arrive_

 _There's a day when all courage collapses_

 _And our friends turn and leave us behind_

 _Creatures of darkness will triumph_

 _The sun won't rise_

Bentley jumped around from heel to heel as he sang the lyrics in his own speed rap style. The boomboxes practically jumped along with him from the sheer volume they were blasting music at.

 _When we've lost all hope_

 _And succumb to fear_

 _As the skies rain blood_

 _And the end draws near_

 _I may fall_

 _But not like this -it won't be by your hand_

 _I may fall_

 _Not this place, not today_

 _I may fall_

 _Bring it all-it's not enough to take me down_

 _I may fall_

Bentley marched left and right, fist pumping along to the beat. In spite of the fact this was a child killing deathmatch all of District Six couldn't help but stomp to the beat and fist bump along with Bentley as his performance continued.

 _The mountain began to rumble. Bentley remained oblivious._

 _There's a place where we'll stand outnumbered_

 _Where the wolves and the soulless will rise_

 _In the time of our final moments_

 _Every dream dies_

 _There's a place where our shields will lay shattered_

 _And the fear's all that's left in our hearts_

 _Strength and our courage have run out_

 _We fall apart_

By now the Capitol crowds were screaming and roaring their approval, each and every single one of them cheering for Bentley and clapping along to the beat. They began to notice the rumbling of the mountain while Bentley began to dance in a sort of stomping circle for the nation to see.

He was so caught up in his act that he had practically forgotten he was in the arena and this was his 'last stand' in a sense.

 _When we lose our faith_

 _And forsake our friends_

 _When the moon is gone_

 _And we reach our end_

 _There's a moment that changes a life when_

 _We do something that no one else can_

 _And the path that we've taken will lead us_

 _One final stand_

Bentley began to sing and rap louder and louder. The rumbling was starting to get dangerously loud. The careers and the girl from Eight ceased their bloody battle further down the mountain, listening in bewilderment to what was going on a mile above them.

 _There's a moment we make a decision_

 _Not to cower and crash to the ground_

 _The moment we face our worst demons_

 _Our courage found_

 _When we stand with friends_

 _And we won't retreat_

 _As we stare down death_

 _Then the taste is sweet_

The whole mountain was practically looking ready to explode from the power of rap. The boom boxes were bouncing out of control and Bentley was now roaring the lyrics with a fire that had not been seen in weeks. It was DJ-CONCORD-Z's finest moment and nothing was going to change that!

 _I may fall_

 _But not like this – it won't be by your hand_

 _I may fall_

 _Not this place, not today_

 _I may fall_

 _Bring it all – it's not enough to take me down_

 _I MAY FAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAALLLLLLLLLLL!_

Bentley screamed the final line with everything he had, almost enough to outright burn his vocal cords. As he continued to bellow out the last word the power of rap and song finally hit the arena full force.

A gigantic avalanche was formed by the sound waves dislodging gigantic amounts of snow. The avalanche rapidly cascaded down the mountain with all the force and majesty expected of nature.

The careers and the girl from Eight never stood a chance.

Bentley finished off the song by tossing the microphone into the air, spinning around and striking a pose as he caught it. As he panted and gasped from such an incredible performance he suddenly realised something.

A cannon was firing. Another cannon fired as well. A third cannon also went off.

Trumpets began to sound across the arena.

"What… I… did I…" Bentley trailed off, slowly removing his gas mask. He was hardly able to believe it.

"Ladies and gentlemen, may I present the victor of the Fifty Fourth Annual Hunger Games!" the announcer, Claudius Templesmith began. "Bentley Corduroy from District Six… AKA DJ-CONCORD-Z!"

Bentley was stunned speechless as the hovercraft descended to rescue him from his frosty prison. He'd done it. He'd done what only one other boy from District Six had ever been able to do. Win the Hunger Games.

Unlike Chassis, however, he'd won with the power of rap and nothing more.

There was only one thing to say, really.

"Cowabunga!" Bentley cheered, overcome with glee. "I won! I frickin' won! No kills! Yeah!"

Alas, he was wrong.

* * *

Bentley was amazingly chipper for a short while after the Games, all things considered. He was just glad to be alive and going home at all. The fact he was getting the fame he'd dreamed of for so long also helped.

Things got much harder and his mood plummeted after the post-Games interview. It was there that he learnt he had, in fact, three kills to his name.

All were accidental, but the fact remained that his rap had still been the direct cause of the avalanche that killed three teenagers. It was something that broke him.

The guilt was overpowering and made it far, far easier for the nightmares to become frequent. The trauma was set and cemented, always filling him up with thoughts of the terrible mutts, the horrific bloodbath, the miserable final moments of those three he ended up killing and all the rest of it.

Every victor killed other tributes and some handled it differently. Bentley handled it the worst out of almost all the victors. It was part of why he tried to adopt a pacifism message in some of his raps, not that the Capitol would ever listen to it.

The only thing that made the guilt go away and stop feeling like it was going to tear him into atoms was morphling. The drug was bad. Bentley knew it was bad… but without it he was unable to cope with the pain. Unable to cope with the knowledge of being a killer.

Unable to forget the way the parents of his kills had looked at him during his victory tour.

He could still rap, drugged or not, but it was clear over time he'd really fallen into addiction. It was the only escape. He genuinely believed it was the only way to _be_.

That is, until he met a fan of his who adored him for his work, his rap message and who he was at heart. A girl whose own love of rap, constant comforting presence and genuine friendship finally managed to help Bentley forgive himself.

But that's another story…

* * *

"Rest in peace Bentley," Katniss said, her voice soft. "Keep rapping in the great unknown."

After a further moment of silence Katniss and Peeta continued to walk down the street. In only a few moments they reached the next face imprinted into the sidewalk.

A surly, rather bitter boy stared back at them. His expression was full of anger and a sort of dismal dourness at the world around him. With messy hair, thick glasses and a rather chubby sort of face he didn't look like a very happy person at all.

"Wattzon Holmes," Peeta read. "Hmm, happy fellow isn't he."

"About as happy as a tribute who just got bit by a mutt," Katniss added.

* * *

There we go, another canon victor given their own backstory! Like I said, Bentley – or, rather, the male morphling – always held my interest and I wanted to do him some justice here. It all clicked into place one moment shortly after I woke up one day… a modest boy longing to be a rapper and filled with moral anguish over his kills. In canon Haymitch said the morphlings 'basically hid until everybody was dead' and I believe accidently killing three people by a rap induced avalanche fits within the parameters of this description. Was the chapter a bit silly? Perhaps. Was it fun to write? Hell yes! Like I've said, any time D6 wins they win BIG and this certainly was a hell of a win. Hope you all liked reading the rise of DJ-CONCORD-Z! But what of his #1 fan mentioned at the end? Well… keep reading and perhaps you'll eventually find out. Until then, time for another non-canon and this time it's a submission from a very good friend of mine. Stay tuned!

* * *

 **Stats**

 **District 1:** Peridot Gaudy (8th Games), Crystal McCree (14th Games), Bronze Marley (19th Games), Crown Martins (24th Games), Dollar Dettwieller (32nd Games), Mascara Court (41st Games), Platinum Twist (44th Games)

 **District 2:** Baron Overwhill (4th Games), Runa Peace (7th Games), Olga Machete (10th Games), Rook Valiant (17th Games), Boulder Atherston (20th Games), Vercingetorix Carnby (25th Games), Dragon Batofel (27th Games), Rhyder Overwhill (39th Games), Mercy Gregor (46th Games), Brutus Gunn (49th Games), Lyme Rabe (51st Games)

 **District 3:** Honorius Perthshire (5th Games), Pi Orbit (22nd Games), Beetee Latier (37th Games), Wiress Plummer (47th Games)

 **District 4:** Museida Selkirk (3rd Games), Mags Flanagan (11th Games), Tide Luther (23rd Games), Librae Ogilvy (35th Games), Anchor Paddock (52nd Games)

 **District 5:** Shunt Gaspar (12th Games), Isobel Sparks (18th Games), Crimson Flanders (29th Games), Porter Tripp (38th Games), Neon Erg (48th Games)

 **District 6:** Chassis Macalister (31st Games), Bentley Corduroy (54th Games)

 **District 7:** Pliny Aransio (2nd Games), Fir Buzz (9th Games), Jack Tylos (21st Games), Snag Nakamura (34th Games), Blight Jordan (53rd Games)

 **District 8:** Woof Casino (16th Games), Paige Murphy (30th Games), Spool Nylon (42nd Games)

 **District 9:** Mizar Aldjoy (1st Games), Gwenith Rosebud (13th Games), Teff Withers (28th Games), Laurel Flamsteel (36th Games), Tabbock Summers (43rd Games)

 **District 10:** Stallion March (26th Games), Lammy Phyronix (40th Games)

 **District 11:** Bear Redfoot (15th Games), Seeder Howell (33rd Games), Chaff Mitchell (45th Games)

 **District 12:** Duke Saint-Rose (6th Games), Haymitch Abernathy (50th Games)


	56. Wattzon Holmes

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Hunger Games. They belong to Suzanne Collins.

 **Note:** Here we go, a rather unique case for a victor – one submitted by a friend! It was a rather unique challenge raised to me; how does one make a completely useless and grumpy tribute emerge as a victor, all while having a place in the overall long term narrative? Rest assured I found a way to make sure it all works. At least, I hope I did. You guys be the judge on whether or not Wattzon's tale is a hit. Regardless, I had fun writing it and I hope you have fun reading it. :)

* * *

"So, what's the story with Wattzon?" Katniss asked. "He doesn't look very happy… or strong… or…"

"Yeah, I… guess I can see that," Peeta admitted. "I remember seeing some of this particular Games on the TV during our tour. He scored poorly, was really bitter, never had anything good going on, and yet…"

Peeta trailed off. Katniss patiently waited for him to continue.

"He was really popular in his year," Peeta eventually continued. "Apparently it was an ironic fanbase, whatever that is. He was 'so useless people thought he was amazing' if that makes any sense?"

"Rest assured… it really doesn't," Katniss said, slowly shaking her head. "I don't recall him being spoken of much, not even on Capitol TV."

"It seems that, outside his ironic fans, the novelty died out and people forgot about him," Peeta said, a dismayed look in his eyes. "Guess his Games were just 'one of many' or something."

It was an ironic sort of thing that Katniss and Peeta did not know much of anything about Wattzon. Especially as his own fate had, in a rather strange way, been ever so intertwined with their fate all along. Even from the days before they were born…

* * *

 **55th Annual Hunger Game** **s**

 **Name:** Wattzon Holmes

 **Gender:** Male

 **District:** 5

 **Age:** 17

 **Kills:** 1

* * *

Useless! Awful! Pathetic!

These were all words that Wattzon had heard pretty much all of his life. To say he was a pariah around Five would be an understatement as even pariah's might find a single person who cares for them and unlocks a somewhat cliché growth story for them to embark upon.

Wattzon had nobody. He was alone. He would spitefully say this was fine, that it didn't matter if everybody hated him because he hated everybody else in return. Fuck the lot of them, who even cared?

The hatred had, rather bizarrely, started from the moment he was born into the world. Mainly because that was the same moment his mother, unable to bear the pain and strain of child birth, had passed away. She left behind a grieving husband and older sibling, both of them bitter and more than fine to take this out on Wattzon.

They raised him, sure. They clothed him, yes. But they did the bare minimum, the stuff any family should do for their young simply because it's the exact right thing to do. Nothing special. Anything beyond the most bare of basics such as love or care was distinctly amiss.

Wattzon only knew what he had done wrong when he was nine. He didn't even remember any of that, only that he'd change it if he could.

He couldn't.

Mainly because, as he would rant to his mentor years later, when he tried to change he only managed to change things for the worst.

He was given a basic job at one of the weaker power plants, ordered to observe the machines and keep everything from overheating. He managed this without issue, taking the steps to shut off all power in his specific sector – Sector 7G -when one of the reactor systems was starting to emit some smoke.

He expected praise for quickly preventing an accident.

He received scorn and more than a few punches because turning off the power had ended up shutting down the electronically powered doors. This had trapped one of his co-workers in a room with noxious gases that had been accidently released. They didn't die, but they'd never be the same again.

He wasn't even able to just walk around the district without causing problems without meaning to. One time a few peacekeepers had made a game out of chasing the fat nerd around and, in his desperation to escape what he thought was an arrest and execution, he accidently led them to several youths vandalising a car.

They were all publicly flogged with Wattzon named as the one who 'did his duty to lead the patriotic peacekeepers to the rebels'.

With no friends, basically no family, constant mockery and hatred wherever he went it was no shock that Wattzon became a miserable and bitter young man, only getting more and more consumed by negativity as the years went by.

His only escape from feeling so bitter was eating, and even then it barely helped, not to mention the food he had in Five was pretty crappy to begin with.

It all added up towards him being a self-proclaimed nihilist and misanthrope by the time he arrived at the reaping for the Fifty Fifth Hunger Games.

* * *

Eunicia sat in her fairly bland apartment as she watched the reaping on her television. By the standards of the Capitol it was in pretty poor shape.

She'd stopped caring a long time ago, roughly around the time her daughter had fallen ill with cancer and been taken into hospital. It could be cured, of course, but it was an incredibly expensive procedure for those not of a noble background.

The only way she was going to get the money to have her daughter cured was to make a risky bet on the Hunger Games and have an unlikely outlier emerge as the victor. Nothing else would give her the money she and her little girl desperately needed.

She watched with blank, exhausted eyes as the careers from One and Two mounted the stage with ferocious smirks on their faces. She didn't react as the genius pair from Three, both from well off backgrounds, were reaped for the Games. She similarly remained without any notable change in her expression as two strong dockhands from Four had their names called. The same was true of the girl from Five, an athletic girl who worked in a warehouse.

She sat upright when she saw Wattzon being reaped and mounting the stage. His out of shape form, his hateful gaze, the way he balled his fists bitterly… he was as unlikely a victor as they came.

If he won the Games then her little girl would be saved!

Before Eunicia could ring up the betting office she noticed how several amongst the crowd were laughing and jeering at Wattzon. It was, in a way, similar to the reactions when Neon was reaped years ago.

Unlike Neon, however, Wattzon actually said something in response.

"Fine, laugh! Sneer! Hate me with all you got!" Wattzon shouted, his face turning red. A tear seemed to trickle from behind his glasses. "I hate you fuckers as well! I hope the whole fucking district burns to the ground! I never did anything on purpose you pieces of shit!"

Wattzon ever so briefly shook his district partner's hand when prompted and stormed away into the judgement building, no need at all for the peacekeepers to escort him inside.

As the reapings continued to go by Eunicia couldn't help but feel a lump of sorts forming down in her guts. Down in her soul.

Sympathy.

She placed her bet on Wattzon an hour later, everything she had left going onto it, wondering just what that boy had been through and why he'd lashed out so badly at the jeering crowd.

She hoped he'd be alright.

* * *

It was the worst night of Wattzon's life. He'd shut himself away shortly after getting onto the train, having nothing to say to the escort, the mentors or the girl who was reaped for the Games alongside himself.

He just wanted to be alone. It was the only way to _be_ , in his opinion.

Wattzon was given Porter as a mentor for the year, not that he really cared. He already believed that there was simply no way whatsoever that he had any chance of getting out alive, so he saw no reason to waste anybody's time. Not his, not Porter's. Why help a useless, worthless case? It's what he'd heard all his life anyway.

He'd given up before he had even started.

He hardly responded to anybody aside with grunts and bitter growls throughout the parade – he got dressed up like a giant Double A battery – and the first day of training where he spent his time off to the side, sulking.

The careers tried to mock him, of course they did. A grumpy outlier who was all alone and threw a fit at the reaping? An easy target all the way.

Wattzon just put up a finger and told them he'd heard it all before.

"Look, anything you could say to me I've already heard a hundred times," Wattzon replied, dull and bitter. "So just stop wasting my time, and yours, and go training over there you fucking cunts!"

The careers vowed payback for the insults in the arena but nonetheless cut their losses and left the area. Nobody went near Wattzon for the rest of the day. He was fine with this.

Really, he didn't care if everybody hated him and wanted him dead. He didn't.

Not much…

He'd originally not even wanted to go to training for the second day, but Porter proved to be quite a convincing mute and so Wattzon was soon back down to try and pick up more skills. He didn't want to try at all, but… dammit, he couldn't deny that his mentor seemed to genuinely have some bare basic level of care for him.

It felt nice.

Nice enough for him to at least try to learn how to set a fire. He'd never much liked the cold. He just hoped the careers would just stay the hell away this time.

They did. But the little boy from Nine did not.

"Wat'cha doing?" the boy asked, standing beside Wattzon as the older, grumpier tribute worked on the fire.

"Making a fire. Piss off," Wattzon muttered.

"Oh, ouch? That wasn't very nice," the boy said, a hand over his heart. "My heart's breaking right now."

"I'm amazed it took twelve years for it to break. Panem's an awful place full of awful people, most have their hearts broken sooner," Wattzon said, not even looking at the small boy.

A few moments went by in silence as Wattzon continued to unsuccessfully work on the fire set-up.

"Why are you still here?" Wattzon asked.

"Well… look, nobody my age has ever won. The others are all pretty scary to be around… I thought maybe we could work together," the boy replied, awkwardly shrugging. "What do we have to lose?"

"Our lives," Wattzon said, still failing at getting anywhere with the fire.

"We'd lose them anyway if we were alone," the boy replied.

Wattzon was unable to make the boy go away and eventually relented, insisting it was just to make him shut up, nothing more. The boy from Nine, Trevy, was all smiles and eager to have an older tribute as his ally. He followed Wattzon like a far smaller shadow of sorts, helping him with training, avoiding the others and anything Wattzon grumbled to him.

Wattzon assumed that Trevy just wanted him as a meatshield, but played along anyway. The kid was alright, whatever his intention was. If one of them did make it out then it would hardly be the worst outcome.

Wattzon's mood plummeted again when the scores were revealed. Trevy had managed a three while Wattzon had only gotten a two after his particularly hopeless and haphazard private training session.

His odds were by far the lowest, a pitiful 50-1.

He wept that night, not that he'd ever admit it. He'd tell anybody who asked that he knew he wasn't worth his own damn tears.

* * *

Eunicia watched the interviews from within a hospital room, her little girl laying in a deep and gloomy sleep on the bed she was seated beside. It was hard to keep hope alive in her heart as, even with Wattzon being the only tribute whose win would give her the money she needed, it was pretty clear that he was very unlikely to last particularly long in the arena.

His score was abysmal and he appeared very grumpy at all times. He needed a good interview or he was as good as dead.

After nine particularly good interviews before him the expectations were slightly higher than the norm as he entered the stage and sat down bitterly in the chair beside Caesar.

All the expectations were promptly dashed.

"Who cares how I'm feeling?" Wattson asked, his arms crossed. "We all know I'm gonna be dead one way or another and you're all gonna cheer when it happens. Just skip me, there's no point to this."

Caesar, of course, was a professional when it came to dealing with uncooperative tributes. It wasn't easy by any means, but with enough prodding and poking at Wattzon's brain he managed to get at least the bare minimum out of him.

Enough for the audience to feel depressed and hoping that the girl from Six would be better in comparison. Wattzon ranting about his failure of a life, his inability to live without making others suffer and the fact his own worthless self was the trade for his mother's life didn't exactly make for riveting television. It only served to make people feel bad.

Eunicia especially felt bad. In most years she didn't pay much mind to the tributes lives before they were reaped. It just hadn't factored into anything.

Now here she was, horrified by how miserable this boy's existence had been since he was born. The crippling hatred for the world and his self-loathing were severe, so much that it was alarming her. This had nothing to do with the vital bet.

He was a boy who badly needed help. He needed a friend of some kind.

As the interviews went by Eunicia couldn't help but wonder just how many other tributes came from miserable existences like Wattzon so clearly did.

It was a relief when Trevy proudly proclaimed that he and Wattzon were allies, making sure to hype up and compliment his ally. It was strange, Eunicia thought, that he was talking more about his ally than himself. Caesar did manage to ask Trevy what his plan was.

Trevy just gave a mischievous sort of smirk, like he was a kid who knew something nobody else did. No pick pocket had ever looked quite so sly.

"Nobody will be able to kill me if they cannot find me," Trevy said, winking.

The interviews came to an end soon enough. On the one hand Eunicia was becoming very attached to Wattzon and hoped he would win, both for her daughter's sake _and_ his own.

On the other hand his odds had decreased to 70-1.

Eunicia turned off the TV and paced around the hospital room. One look at her little girl had her wanting to burst into tears. She'd put everything on this bet, everything on the tiniest chance things might be alright.

She should have known it was foolish. Not only was she feeling awful for her own kid, but she now felt awful for another kid too.

The ironic fanbase that had started to form around Wattzon, all of them memeing across Capitol social media about his legendary uselessness did not remotely cheer her up.

* * *

Wattzon decided to spend what he thought would be his last night alive upon the roof of the tribute building. He figured he may as well enjoy the sight of the night sky one last time, as what the fuck else was there to do other than sleep and have miserable dreams?

An hour went by before footsteps approached from behind him.

"If you're a career get lost and get fucked," Wattzon muttered. "If you're not a career… whatever, get fucked anyway."

"What if I'm an ally?" Trevy asked, sitting down beside Wattzon.

"…Alright, fine, I guess you can just… sit around for a bit or something," Wattzon said, knowing that he'd be unlikely to make Trevy leave.

The pair sat silently for a while. It was a while of star gazing before Trevy said anything more.

"Hey Wattzon?" he began.

"Yeah? What?" Wattzon replied.

"If anything happens to tomorrow… don't give up, ok?" Trevy looked at Wattzon with wide, sad eyes. "Don't just let them kill you."

"Whether I give up or not the outcome is the same," Wattzon replied, shrugging. "That's just how it is."

"Is it? Come on, you have to try. If you don't try you'll always lose," Trevy insisted, rising to his feet. "C'mon, give it a try. Try to live!"

"…I guess I'll try, maybe. Hard to care much when the world hates me and I hate the world," Wattzon muttered, closing his eyes. He didn't want to show any hurt or pain.

"I don't hate you," Trevy replied, sincere. "You're cool. You're all edgy and stuff. I like it."

"…Seriously?" Wattzon said, bewildered.

"Uh huh. What's not to like?" Trevy asked, giggling. "Just remember Wattzon, you gotta have hope. Hope's a good thing, maybe the best of things... and no good thing ever really dies."

Wattzon wasn't quite sure what to say in response to that.

The pair sat on the roof for an hour or two longer, both making plans for the next day. Wattzon was conditioned to doubt a single plan would succeed, but he held back the worst of his attitude for Trevy's sake.

He'd only just learnt the kid actually did not hate him. He didn't want to blow it right afterwards. As they continued to talk and make plans Wattzon couldn't help but notice something.

Trevy wasn't quite looking him in the eye like he had been during the previous days of the week. It was almost like he was hiding something. A secret, maybe?

"Something on your mind?" Wattzon asked, raising a single eyebrow.

"Just one thing," Trevy said, putting on a perky sort of grin. "I believe we can do this… but if one of us falls, the other can't give up, ok? I mean it, they can't give up. They have to keep fighting and living! Even if they think the world hates them."

Wattzon went to bed feeling very conflicted. He wasn't even scared of his particularly likely death, moreso just unsure what to feel more of.

Mild relief that one kid out there thought he was alright to be around and 'edgy', whatever that was… or a sort of suspicious confusion that Trevy just wasn't telling him something.

It didn't help that Trevy was oddly silent for the entire hovercraft ride to the arena the next morning.

Had he, per the norm, said something dumb and turned another person against him?

* * *

Eunicia's daughter was getting weaker by the day. Eunicia herself could hardly bare to watch her poor child nor the Games about to start on the TV screen within the hospital room.

Wattzon's death would in turn assure the death of her own child. His odds and score were pitiful.

She felt like she was going to throw up.

The tributes either sweated or shivered depending on what side of the semicircle of launch pedestals they were on. The left half of the arena was a frozen forest with a few grand lakes and glaciers. The right half of the arena was a scorched wasteland of steam geysers, lava and endless fire. Whether hot or cold the fact as that most tributes were already suffering from the heat, or lack thereof.

The gong rang and, as Eunicia's heart pounded horribly, the tributes lunged off their pedestals. It was make or break time.

She kept her eyes firmly on Wattzon's pudgy form as he scooped up supplies from close to the pedestals, most of them of a fairly questionable value. The careers may have hated his attitude, but none deemed him as a worthwhile target to go for right away. They believed he was absolutely useless.

The boys from Six and Seven and the girls from Four and Eleven were far more worthwhile targets, the screams of the quartet filling the air until the sudden moment they didn't. Eunicia lightly flinched when the boy from Two slit the throat of the boy from Six, but quietly reminded herself it was only to prevent even worse death and bloodshed.

Nobody wanted a repeat of the dark days, the very thing the Games guarded them from facing.

She watched as Wattzon barely dodged out of the way of the boy from One's throwing knives, the knife going on to stick right into the gut of the boy from Twelve. Eunicia yelled and shouted, urging Wattzon to flee while he still had the chance.

Before he could make a run into the expanses of the arena his eyes locked onto Trevy. Wattzon was too far away and far too late to be able to prevent him from running right at the girl from One, a knife in hand.

One slash of a sword and he fell down dead, not making a single sound even as he bled out.

Eunicia watched as Wattzon's face twisted into a look of fury and pain, like he wanted to unleash the most vile and hateful of words upon the careers. With the crowd at the cornucopia quickly swindly, whether from tributes being dead or successfully evacuating the area, it was far too dangerous for him to remain and try anything.

Wattzon held back a tear and ran off towards the lava side of the arena, his pace clunky and awkward. Only the fact the battles raged on at the cornucopia prevented anybody trying to take an easy toss of a spear or knife towards him.

Eunicia's eyes were practically glued to the screen as Wattzon ran past steam geysers and lava fissures, clutching an armful of low value items – a thin square meter blanket, an empty water bottle, a coil of wire, a tiny wrapping of three cheese squares and so on – and wheezing badly. As he ran for his life the cannons began to fire.

Nine cannons for nine eliminated tributes.

The betting odds board was quickly adjusted – Wattzon was dead last with odds of 52-1 of winning – and the reaction of those in the districts was broadcast, whether it was relief of a tribute still being in the Games or sobbing over a tribute losing. Eunicia knew it was always a shame when a tribute's fans were left disappointed.

But the strangest reaction was of Wattzon's father and brother. They'd seen the entire bloodbath from start to finish, but they didn't give away any emotion. No fear, no unease, no relief, no cheering, not even a faint look of concern… there was nothing at all. They just exchanged a shrug and muttered something inaudible, clearly not caring about what was happening on screen.

It was bad enough to not care for one's child, but to not care when they were in such an admittedly dangerous high stakes competition? It left Eunicia absolutely lost as to what the hell was wrong with them.

Didn't they care that, despite being predicted as the first to die, Wattzon had managed to survive the bloodbath unscathed and had already reached the top fifteen?

Eunicia glanced at her dying little girl, her heart aching. It was terrible to consider that people didn't care for their children. She knew she'd do anything for her little girl. Risking debtors prison, or worse, if her bet did not work out was a small price to pay if it was truly the only way to keep her alive.

* * *

Wattzon spent the first night hidden away amongst a large cluster of boulders. He was hot, tired and incredibly overcome with a seething sort of loathing for everything… he was also feeling hopeless more than anything else.

His ally Trevy was dead, gone without a word or even a sound.

He was all alone in the arena.

The only person who seemed to care about him was dead and hadn't even said a word to him on the flight to the arena.

"I drove him away, of course I did. I must have said some other stupid shit. I mean, why not right? Everybody else hates me! Why the fuck would a kid like Trevy be any different?!" Wattzon leapt up and started to pace around as dawn broke over the arena. "I've tried to change my fucking everything so many times… when others change they change for the better! When I change, _**I just change for the worse**_!"

Wattzon was seething by now as he stormed around what had been his campsite for the night. So bitter and rancid was his mood that he didn't notice he wasn't exactly alone anymore.

"Are you laughing, Five?! Are you having fun watching me in this hellhole?!" Wattzon screeched. "I bet you are, you rotten bastards! I never meant to be useless! I didn't mean to make mom die! I… I didn't mean to _be me_!"

Wattzon ducked down to punch the ground. It was indeed lucky that he had, as the throwing knife that had been aimed for his neck sailed harmlessly overheard. Wattzon took one look at where it had came from. An instant later he was off as fast as he could force his out of shape body to move.

The career pack had found him.

Wattzon panted, wheezed and cursed. Of course he'd be foolish enough to rant and forget how dangerous doing so in the arena was, of _course_ he would! Part of him wanted to just give up and get it over with.

The other part of him wanted to keep running and tire the careers out a little bit out of sheer spite.

The boy from One was the fastest runner and kept pace the easiest, even with Wattzon having a thirty meter head start. It wouldn't be long until he caught up with his prey.

Or it wouldn't have been had Wattzon not ran right into the girl from Eight as she exited a cave at the base of a scorched cliff. They both fell down but Wattzon got up faster, running for his life.

He began to curse himself over and over once again as he wearily ran off, the screams of the girl from Eight swiftly fading behind him. Just like back home he'd lured danger towards the innocent, this time enough danger to have somebody killed.

Spite and, in his own opinion, cowardice prevented him from just turning back and laying down to die.

Wattzon managed to, for a time, evade the careers. After an hour of trying to get his breath back he was reduced to stumbling along, lightheaded as could be, towards the central line of the arena.

The line where fire became ice.

* * *

Eunicia watched in despair as her daughter grew ever sicker. It wouldn't be long until cancer claimed her from the world. Two weeks and that was it claimed the doctors. They would be able to heal her up ever so easily, practically in half an hour, with the latest technology.

But they wouldn't do a thing without cold hard cash. Cash that would only come from Wattzon's victory. Even then, if this Games ended up being as long as the Ninth or the Forty Fourth were then it would be a victory that came far, far too late.

So far it was the fifth day in the arena and eleven tributes were still alive. Many were scattered around the lava side of the arena and the tundra, while the careers were clustered together as always.

Wattzon was something of an irregular factor compared to the rest. He didn't explore or hide, he mainly ran for his life. The career pack was often hot on his trail, all too eager to slaughter the one who had given them such vicious attitude back in the training centre.

Wattzon was quite good at evading them. Mainly because he was even better at accidently luring the pack towards other tributes who were simply unlucky enough to be there at the time. It always ended with Wattzon fleeing further into the depths of the arena while the careers butchered whoever Wattzon happened to lead them to.

Caesar and Claudius were quick to comment on what they saw as Wattzon's brilliant plan as the days went by. Claudius called it one of the most clever, cold and calculated plans he'd ever seen in the arena and gave his full approval. Caesar mused that Wattzon had put serious work into making himself appear as a completely worthless loser before the Games began and declared him as a dark horse to watch out for. The boy was a genius!

Eunicia could see the torment in Wattzon's eyes as he stumbled around through the tundra side of the arena. The guilt was eating away at him particularly badly, this 'master plan' seeming like it was just a series of complete flukes.

Flukes that were only making him feel more and more awful about himself.

She had to leave her daughter eventually, simply because work demanded she come in lest her job be taken away. But even work was no escape from her worries, her anxiety or her panic. Not when her co-workers kept talking about the Games.

Wattzon was popular amongst the others who worked in the computer labs of the fashion house – they were, after all, the research division – and they kept going on and on about him.

They were memeing him!

All of her work mates knew full well that Wattzon was useless beyond compare… and they loved that about him! They would chatter on and on about how epic he was for being unable to do much of anything. It was like the newest game was to talk about his failures and mishaps like they were the grandest of historic accomplishments.

Indeed, Wattzon somehow managed to stub his entire left foot upon the only frozen rock for miles. This sheer moment of failure left him howling and screaming, hopping around on one foot and cursing like a sailor for a whole minute.

It became five minutes when Wattzon's hopping ended with him stepping on a few newly spawned rocks that were made to resemble two by four Panem bricks. The sheer fact this occurred had even a few of the gamemakers cringing. Eunicia could hardly stand the sight.

Her co-workers, meanwhile, simply called this an even more epic moment of fail than normal and began to holler and hoot their approval for their 'useless king'.

Eunicia eyed her tribute on the office TV with sympathy and her co-workers with disdain. Stepping on Panem bricks was not funny!

Her disdain became terror when the career pack closed in on Wattzon once again. The seemingly endless chase resumed with Wattzon cursing up a storm the whole way.

* * *

Wattzon could only groan as he lay in a heap on the ground where the snow met the scorched ground of the lava side of the arena. It was the eighth day of the Games and things had gotten far past the point of merely sucking a whole lot.

Wattzon was out of food and the only water he had was made from melted snow. Suffice to say, it tasted poorly. He lay in pain, knowing no sponsors were coming and that the careers would surely find him again before long.

He was starting to think the careers were not even trying to kill him anymore, at least not quite with quite so much effort. The boy from One was clearly running far slower than he was normally capable of doing in spite of lacking any injuries.

It would make sense. Wattzon had already accidently led them to six tributes ever since they had first started chasing him. If they killed him then they'd lose the very thing that was giving them such an easy time.

Wattzon hated himself even more for the fact that, despite his best efforts and how it was truly not intentional, he was helping the careers kill everybody. Their blood felt like it was soaked upon his hands, not those of the careers.

It made him sick.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Wattzon practically clawed at his own face, tormented. "I didn't mean it, I never meant for it to happen. Fuck!"

Wattzon slowly sat himself up. For a few moments he blankly stared into the abyss of nothingness. After that he began to angrily chuck pebbles as far as he could make them go… so, not very far.

"Why does this keep happening?" Wattzon shouted. "Why! Can't! I! Stop! Getting! People! Killed?!"

It, naturally, was not long until Wattzon's shouting lured the career pack over towards him once again. He was off like a bullet once again, or at least as fast as he could force his body to stumble along.

Wattzon made sure to keep a very close eye out for any sign of other tributes. This time he was not going to lure the careers towards anybody else. This time would be different!

In a way it was. He didn't so much lure them towards a tribute as a tribute, the boy from Three, made a charge towards him with a knife in hand.

Wattzon desperately tried to made him go away before he got himself killed but the end result ended up being basically the same. The boy ran forwards, somehow missed Wattzon and ended up in range of the spear held by the girl from Two.

Wattzon pulled away once again, at least for a short while, and began to twitch in self-fury. Indeed, the loathing for literally everything that filled his mind and soul was starting to make Wattzon practically foam at the mouth.

"I… I…" Wattzon seemed to stop twitching, the light and the fire within him both going out all at once. "…I give up… fuck it, maybe if I just lay down and die nobody else is going to die because of me."

Wattzon wandered off aimlessly into the arena, searching for a perfectly good spot to lay down and let the inevitable take him away.

* * *

It was a week and half since the Games had started. Eunicia was getting frantic, her daughter becoming ever weaker. It was not going to be long now until she was taken away by the cancer that tainted her body. She remained by her in the hospital, refusing to leave her little girl's side.

Her only hope was Wattzon's victory and now of all times the boy had just laid down, like he was accepting his fate. He simply lay on the snow at the centre of a field not far from where the ice land met the lava land, blankly staring at the sky.

He'd not moved in over a day.

He hadn't even moved when a feast had been called a mere three miles north of his current location. The other six tributes had attended, all ready to fight for supplies. Eunicia winced as she recalled how the girls from Three and Nine worked together to slit the arms and throat of the boy from Two and how the other careers had cut them both down not even two minutes later.

Wattzon kept laying immobile, a non-factor as the remaining careers battled it out at the feast. With such a useless final opponent they saw no reason to keep their alliance together. Breaking the pack early could cost careers dearly, but with Wattzon being Wattzon none of them saw a scenario where he could realistically beat them.

It was a long, bloody and savage battle but in the end the boy from One had managed to overpower this allies and gut them both. He laughed, assured of his victory, as he began to reap the rewards of the feast.

Among those rewards was a suit of thick metal armour. The perfect protection from what little Wattzon might have been able to do.

"Come on Wattzon," Eunicia pleaded, almost tearful. "Come on, _please_ get up."

Alas, Wattzon did not get up. He seemed to have bathed himself in hatred and defeat, content to not move again for the rest of his likely limited time alive.

Caesar and Claudius pondered the idea of this being just another clever plan, one to lull his last opponent into a state of false security. A classic way to trick the career into lowering his guard before a sudden strike.

Eunicia saw it as Wattzon almost crossing the so-called despair event horizon and not caring what became of him anymore.

"Mommy…" her daughter choked out. "Hurts…"

"It won't hurt for much longer, dear," Eunicia whispered.

Eunicia was right. If Wattzon won then the cure could be given. If he lost then the pain would end… permanently.

* * *

Wattzon had no idea how much time had gone by, only that it had felt like an endless journey through the ether of time since he'd laid down. He didn't care what happened to him anymore.

Would death and dismemberment greet him if he did not move from the icy ground soon? Perhaps. He just inwardly shrugged as if to say 'so be it'. He couldn't find it in him to care anymore.

It was hard to care when everybody hated him and he had nothing to go home to. What was the point.

The point was the deadly tip of the serrated sword the boy from One was carrying, having finally spotted Wattzon. Survival instincts took over and suddenly Wattzon decided he rather liked the idea of living a bit longer.

Certainly a better thing than being chopped up by that sword!

"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" Wattzon yelled in panic, trying to escape his killer. "Aw shit!"

The boy from One was no longer playing around. Not when there was only one person left to go and it was the hands down weakest and most useless tribute in the arena. The only thing that slightly slowed him down was his heavy armour.

Not that he minded this. He could handle the weight and knew that Wattzon was likely to tire out before he did.

Wattzon hadn't been far from the border between ice and fire, swiftly exiting the colder half of the arena and entering the hot half. Lava was bubbling, smoke filled the sky and fire blasted out from geysers and cracks in the ground. It was enough to have Wattzon sweating and wheezing in seconds.

It made the boy from One feel the pressure of the heat as well.

There were not many places Wattzon could run to beyond scorched open terrain. Places where he'd be caught and horribly cut apart soon enough. Wattzon instead ran for the only landmark he could see, hoping that a brief change in terrain may help him get ahead of the deadly career.

Wattzon ran over a bridge above burning lava, cursing and yelling in a fit of panic. It was agony on his tired legs to keep moving, leading him to finally kneel over at the far side of the bridge. He expected that death would greet him perhaps ten seconds later, tops.

It didn't.

He turned, wondering if he had managed to somehow lose the boy from One in all the running.

He hadn't.

The boy from One staggered towards him, groaning and wheezing in pain. Wattzon had no idea what was going on as the mighty career stumbled towards him one step at a time. He only knew that the boy looked to be in great pain.

Enough pain to collapse face down on the bridge, hardly able to move. All the career seemed able to do was choke and gasp.

A glance at the way the metal armour was starting to glow a faint shade of orange told Wattzon all he needed to know. Metal conducted heat. So much heat in this case that his opponent had been left dehydrated and in too much pain to be able to get back up to keep the chase going.

Wattzon didn't waste any time. He stumbled over to the fallen career and awkwardly kicked him right in the side. He almost fell over from the effort of doing so, only barely stopping himself from falling on his ass.

It was embarrassing, but still preferable to what became of the boy from One, Namely, the kick being just enough to knock him over the edge of the bridge and into the lava down below.

The nation of Panem was stunned into absolute silence as the cannon boomed throughout the arena. They could hardly believe what they were seeing.

Frankly Wattzon was having trouble believing it as well.

Somehow, someway, one of the most useless tributes who had ever entered the Games had just won. A tribute whose victory was even more unlikely than those of Gwenith, Crown, Paige and Lammy. Only Snag's seemed more unlikely… well, it had before the first minute had gone by anyway.

Nobody had foreseen Wattzon bumbling his way towards victory.

 _Wattzon_ had never seen it coming.

Regardless, that was what happened. Nothing remained of the boy from One to send home in a casket while Wattzon was still in a stunned silence as he was taken out of the arena by the hovercraft.

He was so stunned that he was not cursing or even showing signs of bitterness and guilt. He was completely shellshocked beyond the point of being able to utter a single word.

Many miles away the money awarded from the winning bet was transferred into Eunicia's bank account.

* * *

Wattzon stood in the after-party of the Games, sulking. He'd survived and he didn't even feel happy about it. How could he? Plenty of kids who had people who cared about them were dead and many of them had been his fault.

His kill count may have officially been counted as just one, but he knew it was a lot more than that in reality.

He eyed the Capitolites in disgust, utterly revolted by the way they laughed, chattered mindlessly, gorged on food and then drank vomit cola to spew it out and keep eating.

He thought they were freaks, almost as much as he believed himself to be.

Eventually Wattzon decided he wanted to get away from the whole thing. Just as many victors of years gone had done he stormed off to find an empty balcony far away from all of the party goers. It took longer than he wanted, but sure enough he managed to find what he was looking for.

His peaceful respite only lasted two minutes before somebody came out to join him.

"Ok, I'm done keeping myself quiet. Frankly Snow can do whatever the fuck he wants to Five, they never did anything but hate me anyway," Wattzon muttered as he turned to the woman who walked out. "I'll make this nice and easy for you to understand, ok? Fuck. Off. I'm _not_ in the mood to talk to anybody."

"What?" the woman stumbled over her words, incredibly taken aback. "But I… I…"

"I have nothing but contempt for you people, betting on the lives of children and cheering over murder. You're all sick," Wattzon spat, turning away. "Twenty three good people died. The only one who didn't was me… somebody nobody would've missed. That's what I've been told all my life."

Wattzon leaned against the balcony railings, sighing.

"I don't care what you wanted from me, but I'm not interested. I just want to be alone," Wattzon muttered. "I've done enough damage. I don't want to start ruining even more lives. I already ruined a ton and now they're making memes about me being useful. Just…"

Wattzon sighed again, unable to find the words he needed.

"Just go," Wattzon said, blankly. "My victory helped nobody, it-."

"It did!" the woman, Eunicia, exclaimed. "That's what I came out here for Wattzon. I wanted to _thank_ you."

This got Wattzon to turn around, a taken aback sort of look on his face.

"Thank me?" he said, stumped. "…For what?"

"You saved my little girl," Eunicia whispered, tears welling up in her eyes. "I bet everything I had left on your victory. You being alive means she got the cancer treatment she needed."

"…Wait… what…?" Wattzon said, stunned.

Eunicia went on to explain it all. How her little girl had caught cancer at such a cruelly young age, how much money had gone into keeping her cared for yet unable to cure her, how she'd watched over Wattzon every step of the way in the arena… and how bad she felt for him when it became all too clear how nobody cared for him.

"You've had it rough. Very rough," Eunicia's words were slow, like she was unsure if she should even be saying them. "But I care about you. You saved my daughter… to me, you're a hero."

"…A hero?" Wattzon stammered, hardly able to believe somebody was talking to him, not hating him and didn't seem like she was going to die any day soon.

"A true hero," Eunicia said, quickly nodding. "There's somebody else who wants to meet you as well. Somebody who refused to go to bed on time and insisted on coming here to say thank you. She always did get her politeness from me."

Eunicia turned to the doorway. A small figure watched from the other side of the doorframe, partly hidden with a blonde wig upon her bald head given away by the light.

"Effie dear? Would you like to meet Wattzon?" Eunicia Trinket asked, gently.

Effie didn't say yes. What good was that when running to Wattzon and tackle hugging him was a much better way of getting her point across? She embraced the victor, standing on the tips of her toes to try and come at least halfway towards matching his height.

"Thank you Mr Holmes," Effie whispered, sincerely grateful. "You saved me."

"It's been hard since my husband left… you kept my daughter with me. You kept our family together," Eunicia continued. "I know you didn't know it at the time, but you've made such a difference to us. I'm not sure we can ever repay you. I just hope that-EEP!"

Wattzon, manly tears pouring from his eyes, had quickly pulled Effie and Eunicia into a tight hug. He didn't let go of them for a even a second, as though he never wanted the moment to end. Effie eagerly hugged him back while Eunicia could only watched in wonder at this all new side of the most bitter of the victors.

"Thank you," Wattzon whispered, practically shaking.

"For what?" Eunicia asked. "You're the one who deserves to be thanked."

"That's just it," Wattzon said, sniffling. "Thanks for thanking me… for making me feel, at least for now, like I'm worth something. That somebody doesn't hate me."

The hug went on for quite some time, nobody wanting to be the one who ended it.

* * *

The train pulled out of the Capitol early the next morning and sped off towards District Five. At the time the train was around halfway towards the victor's district Wattzon was grinning in barely contained glee.

President Snow, meanwhile, was howling in absolute fury.

There had been a historic disaster before the Games had even begun, one that officially nobody aside from Snow and his inner circle were allowed to know about or speak of.

All the facts were spelt out within a letter that the aging first victor, Mizar, had given to Wattzon before he left the Capitol. A letter Trevy had given to Mizar with a request to 'give it to Wattzon if he wins, and burn it if he loses'.

Mizar handed it over, hoping whatever was written inside would bring Wattzon some form of closure about his former ally.

It did.

 _-Dear Wattzon._

 _If you're reading this then I am dead. I've been cut down, left the world and joined the choir invisible. Please don't forget about me. :(_

 _Just kidding! I never went into the arena to begin with. Get this; there was an avox on the District nine floor who looked just like me. The poor guy didn't want to live any longer and we agreed to swap places. I don't know what he did, but I wasn't about to say no to escaping the Capitol. He'll be going in my place and making sure the careers don't get too near you at the start. So, whoop!_

 _It's eight hours until the Games start as I write this. In one hour the switch is going to be made and I'll be leaving the city through the sewers. No biggie, I live in the sewers back home anyway. Best place for a street thief to hide. I'll be wishing you the best of luck and hoping, someday, we can meet each other again. I thought you were pretty cool._

 _See you later Wattzon and, if you ever feel all edgy and upset, just remember… a twelve year old outsmarted the Capitol. Haha!_

 _Yours with smugness_

 _Trevy Vex-_

Wattzon smirked and let out a loud, genuine laugh. It was just as he'd known all along, twelve year olds were sneaky bastards. He hoped to one day meet Trevy again, if only to praise him for how much this was sure to piss off President Snow. He wished he could see the man's face.

Hundreds of miles away in the Morgue where the avox's body had been kept President Snow's face was certainly quite a thing to behold. Red face, near animalistic snarls and nothing short of pure black hatred in his eyes… it was like the spirit of Orion had came on by for one final rampage.

* * *

The Capitol was in absolute chaos. The last thing they had seen was Katniss firing an arrow at the forcefield, a massive explosion and then everything shut down. It hadn't taken long for it to progress from the citizens of the Capitol complaining about the power cut and demanding the Games be put back on for it to 'accidentally' leak out that a rebellion had began and war was declared.

From that point on a city wide panic had been only inevitable. Crowds of colourful people with feathers, wings, scales and more were running helter and skelter, screaming and shouting like maniacs.

Several victors had already died after the peacekeepers stormed the mentoring room, but some had made it out before it was too late, Haymitch among them. No mentors had been confirmed deceased yet, but it was a fair bet that by morning at least five would be gone from the world.

Wattzon was not among them.

Due to Neon dying first of everybody and Arendellian III having been taken out by a tidal wave – he'd allowed himself time to weep over the death of the women he considered his surrogate little sister – Wattzon had been nowhere near the mentoring room when the shit hit the fan. He'd hardly known about what was coming, actually.

But he did know that an avox in the club he was drinking at just so happened to look rather like him.

As the city wide rumble went on nobody paid attention to a manhole cover at the outskirts of the evil city. Nobody saw as the cover was thrown away and a figure climbed out from within in an avox uniform. Nobody saw the figure making a run into the mountains that surrounded the Capitol.

Nobody noticed Wattzon had successfully made his own escape from the carnage through the sewers.

"Holy shit," Wattzon muttered, coming to a stop atop a tall cliff that overlooked the Capitol. "I knew that girl was a rebel, but _**shit**_!"

Wattzon allowed himself a few minutes to catch his breath. He hoped that Crimson would be alright, his poor fellow mentor having last been seen heading off towards the east of the Capitol, allegedly to collect a dress of all things. He especially hoped Clarkson was going to be alright back home in Five. If his husband died he wasn't sure what he'd do.

He didn't want to imagine what might happen to his psyche if Eunicia and Effie were dead. He could only hope that they'd be overlooked. Eunucia was as much a rebel as he was an idealist. Not even slightly.

Just as he was starting to move on a spotlight shined down on him. He recoiled in alarm, falling backwards onto his ass.

"There he is!" a voice exclaimed, one without any trace of a Capitol accent.

A helicopter descended to the ground from above – a rather crudely painted on at that – and a lanky young man leapt off of it when it came close to the ground. The shaggy haired man, sporting several tattoos, made his way over to Wattzon.

Wattzon took one look at the pair of assault rifles he was carrying and assumed the worst.

He didn't expect to be tossed one of the guns and offered a hand.

"Different year, different Games and we're still in a bit of a mess together," the man said, a glimmer of joy in his eyes. "It's good to see you, buddy."

"…Trevy?" Wattzon whispered, amazed. "…You absolute magnificent bastard! Switching with an avox? That was genius!"

"Seems you ripped me off, mate," Trevy teased, looking at Wattzon's borrowed Avox uniform. "Ready to get the hell out of here? I know somewhere we can hide until the heat dies down a bit. My mates don't trust either the Capitol or Thirteen to be honest."

"Thirteen's alive?" Wattzon asked, stumped. "Hm, I'm always the last to know shit."

The pair boarded the helicopter and swiftly flew off into the night, far away from the Capitol's radar and the dangers of the deadly city.

Trevy would be sure to fill Wattzon in on everything he knew soon enough, but it could wait a while.

A bro hug twenty years in the making came first.

"Imagine if you'd not ended up saving Effie," Trevy said after they parted from their hug. "Katniss and Peeta wouldn't have been reaped… or volunteered in the Mockingjay's case I guess? You kinda caused all of this, my man."

Wattzon was silent for a moment.

"…Holy shit, I didn't even realise," Wattzon said, stunned.

* * *

"Well, even if he was just 'one of many', I hope somebody out there cares about him and, well, remembers him," Peeta said, continuing from his previous words.

"It sure would be awful, surviving the Games and nobody caring to remember what happened in the process," Katniss agreed. "Wonder what became of him in the end."

"You got me. I've got no idea," Peeta replied.

The pair held a silence for Wattzon and soon moved their way further down the long street. They quickly came to the fifty sixth imprinted face along the sidewalk, one that instantly gave Peeta pause. Katniss, of course, immediately knew why.

Looking up at them from the ground was the sallow and shaken face of a fairly rattled girl. Her hair was shoulder length and quite stringy, while her eyes were wide and afraid. She was clearly a very troubled sort of person.

"That'll be Porsche London. She saved my life and I never even knew her name," Peeta said, pain in his eyes. "Well, I know her name now… I'll always be grateful for the poor women."

"You know what? I will too," Katniss agreed, reaching to take a gentle hold of Peeta's hand.

* * *

Hope you guys enjoyed that one! I found it a lot of fun to work with writing a character like Wattzon, going from complete and utter zero to his own kind of hero, even if not on purpose. Just think, if he'd died and Effie died too… what may have happened? Alas, dwelling on such questions may drive one mad. Haha, in any case I enjoyed writing Wattzon's negative attitude and the side story of Eunicia; making those sorts of things come together in the end always feels very satisfying. Plus, a twelve year old managed to survive _and_ did so in a way that does not violate canon. Whoa! Whatever may come next? Well, the tale of the Female Morphling of course. Stay tuned!

* * *

 **Stats**

 **District 1:** Peridot Gaudy (8th Games), Crystal McCree (14th Games), Bronze Marley (19th Games), Crown Martins (24th Games), Dollar Dettwieller (32nd Games), Mascara Court (41st Games), Platinum Twist (44th Games)

 **District 2:** Baron Overwhill (4th Games), Runa Peace (7th Games), Olga Machete (10th Games), Rook Valiant (17th Games), Boulder Atherston (20th Games), Vercingetorix Carnby (25th Games), Dragon Batofel (27th Games), Rhyder Overwhill (39th Games), Mercy Gregor (46th Games), Brutus Gunn (49th Games), Lyme Rabe (51st Games)

 **District 3:** Honorius Perthshire (5th Games), Pi Orbit (22nd Games), Beetee Latier (37th Games), Wiress Plummer (47th Games)

 **District 4:** Museida Selkirk (3rd Games), Mags Flanagan (11th Games), Tide Luther (23rd Games), Librae Ogilvy (35th Games), Anchor Paddock (52nd Games)

 **District 5:** Shunt Gaspar (12th Games), Isobel Sparks (18th Games), Crimson Flanders (29th Games), Porter Tripp (38th Games), Neon Erg (48th Games), Wattzon Holmes (55th Games)

 **District 6:** Chassis Macalister (31st Games), Bentley Corduroy (54th Games)

 **District 7:** Pliny Aransio (2nd Games), Fir Buzz (9th Games), Jack Tylos (21st Games), Snag Nakamura (34th Games), Blight Jordan (53rd Games)

 **District 8:** Woof Casino (16th Games), Paige Murphy (30th Games), Spool Nylon (42nd Games)

 **District 9:** Mizar Aldjoy (1st Games), Gwenith Rosebud (13th Games), Teff Withers (28th Games), Laurel Flamsteel (36th Games), Tabbock Summers (43rd Games), Trevy Vex (Escaped 55th Games)

 **District 10:** Stallion March (26th Games), Lammy Phyronix (40th Games)

 **District 11:** Bear Redfoot (15th Games), Seeder Howell (33rd Games), Chaff Mitchell (45th Games)

 **District 12:** Duke Saint-Rose (6th Games), Haymitch Abernathy (50th Games)


	57. Porsche London

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Hunger Games. They belong to Suzanne Collins.

 **Note:** Another chapter, another victor and another canon too! The female morphling is another tribute that caught my eye as I read through the books & watched the movies, and (per the norm here, let's be honest!) I felt was underused. I mean, I get why of course, but one can dream more had been done with the women who so bravely and willingly gave her life for Peeta. Let's give it up for the first ever female victor from District Six… and see just how the actual hell she made it home! Remember, when Six wins they win _**big**_ …

* * *

Peeta was silent for a while as he considered the imprinted, immortalised face of the deceased victor at his feet.

"In Six they often look afraid. They almost always do, more than most districts," Peeta said, almost to himself. "I mean, maybe not the girl who was in our year, but… I never got the usual sense of fear from Porsche. She seemed brave… fearless… know what I mean?"

"I think she was afraid. Well, perhaps when she was our age," Katniss said from her spot close beside Peeta. "But when the quell came by she must have had nothing left to lose. I've always believed somebody with nothing to lose is the most powerful sort of person."

"Yeah, I can believe that," Peeta said. "…Maybe if the other victor from Six is still alive she can tell us just what Porsche's life was like."

With nothing more to say the pair from Twelve began a respectful silence for Porsche.

* * *

 **56th Annual Hunger Games**

 **Name:** Porsche London

 **Gender:** Female

 **District:** 6

 **Age:** 15

 **Kills:** 4

* * *

Odysseus Toot was a very jumpy man. In fact, perhaps jumpy was not the right word. Maybe the right word was completely and utterly paranoid to a ridiculous degree.

Alright, fine, the right eight words then. Still, if you were to call Odysseus those eight words he would be quick to assure you that he had a very valid reason for having such a frantic sort of disposition. Several reasons in fact.

His job as the Head Gamemaker of the Hunger Games had come close to getting him killed ever since he first took the damn job!

It all started back in the Fifty Second Games, when the ending of the quell not long prior had opened up the top spot after the Head Gamemaker of the time was thrown into Snow's trusty wood chipper (inherited from Orion, apparently). The Fifty First Games went well enough, but the women who stepped up to lead that year had only wanted the top spot once to keep everything on track. She was happier as a mutt breeder anyway.

Odysseus got his chance to shine the following year and, well, that was pretty much where all his problems and seemingly endless need for anxiety medication first made its appearance.

After Anchor had betrayed all of the career pack, up to and including his own lifelong friend who volunteered with him, Odysseus thought he was going to be hanged. The careers from One and Two were all dead! Dead in under ten minutes! There was only a single one left and Four was never as good with careers as One and Two. Not only that, but Anchor had ended up hunting down the remaining tributes in a mere twenty three hours.

He had expected Snow to kill him, but instead he'd commended him for the fast and exciting Games. Especially so for the message of how even One and Two were not exempt from bending the knee to the Capitol and being reminded of their places. The fact Anchor was a loyalist himself also helped.

One bullet dodged led to another being fired. Odysseus was practically sobbing when Snow ordered a meeting after the Fifty Thirty Games came to an end. Such a close shave with having no victor at all thanks to the tracker jackers? He was gonna be met with a hail of bullets!

Instead Snow had shook his hand, called it one of the most exciting endings to a Hunger Games ever seen and gave Odysseus' eldest son a free pass through college.

The Fifty Fourth Games were more or less a nervous breakdown with a neat bow on top. A massive avalanche thanks to the victor's crazy, if rather catchy, 'slick beats'? He was gonna die for that oversight! Oh the horror!

Snow had been laughing his ass off and called it one of the best final kills – or, final triple kills to be specific – the Games had ever been lucky enough to have and bought Odysseus a new car, no strings attached.

The Fifty Fifth Games… holy shit! A useless lump of a tribute somehow winning after the dashing and brave boy from One collapsed from his own overheating armour!? He was truly a dead man walking, no doubt about it! The fact the boy from Nine had escaped and been replaced by an avox made Odysseus fear that his family would be thrown in the woodchipper too!

Snow had loved the Games and thought somebody like Wattzon winning proved that, really, any tribute could stand a chance of making it home. It made it all the easier to weaponize hope and keep the districts in line. As for the boy who escaped, well, that was indeed a serious and rage inducing problem for President Snow… one he took out on the security of the tribute building. It had been their job to keep an eye on the tributes, not that of the gamemakers.

After all of this it was no surprise that Odysseus was particularly jumpy when the reaping for the Fifty Sixth Games went underway. He just knew that this was sure to be the year that something big and bad was going to happen, far too terrible for Snow to somehow decide not to kill him.

If he survived this year then he was going to leave the job, no doubt about it!

The reapings started off normally enough, the crop of tributes this year being a fairly average sort. Pretty killers from One, deadly warriors from Two, brainiacs of questionable physical ability from Three and a pair of lifeguards from Four, and so on.

District Six was as pitiful as they usually were. The boy was young and looked so feeble that a strong breeze would send him flying off into the sky. Hardly likely to last longer than a minute.

The girl who mounted the stage was shaking and breathing erratically throughout the entire walk from the fifteen year old girls' section. It wasn't because of fear though.

It was clear signs of not having a hit of drugs recently. Simply put, withdrawal.

The girl, Porsche London, muttered something unintelligible, hardly able to remain standing under the effects of withdrawal and the force of the pouring rain. The poor girl was practically a walking corpse already and not just because of her terrible initial odds of victory (80-1).

Even so, Odysseus eyed the drug addict warily as she stumbled along with the peacekeepers into the judgement building.

She was a girl who clearly had nothing to lose. It was always the cornered rats who ended up being the most dangerous of the lot. After Wattzon's victory Odysseus was not about to assume a weak tribute wouldn't be a problem.

* * *

It was with a feeling of foreboding that Odysseus settled to watch the tribute parade. He had a nasty feeling things were going to go off the rails and get him killed any moment now.

They'd already gone off the rails while the tributes were being taken to the Capitol… literally. The District Ten train had derailed and, while nobody had been hurt (well, hurt beyond what the Capitol could easily fix anyway) the Games had been delayed an entire day while the Tens had to be retrieved by a hovercraft.

He expected a bullet in his skull for this, but Snow had conceded that this truly had nothing to do with him. The train's driver had been shoved into the woodchipper instead.

Odysseus really needed a drink and, if not for the fact he had to keep his head clear for his work, he would've been six bottles in by now.

The parade was overall a relatively big success. Not the best ever, but an enjoyable sort of affair and far from being a bottom-tier parade. He would live to see another day, even after how the pair from Twelve wouldn't stop crying.

He couldn't help but look down at Porsche, wondering what was going through that girl's mind. She continued to twitch and shudder, but her mind was clearly intact. It was almost like she was doing something Odysseus knew was often dangerous.

She was thinking!

He could only hope that whatever her plan was, it would either fail quickly or not cause any catastrophes if it somehow worked.

At least she was unlikely to bring in many sponsors to support herself. Being bony, shaky and stuck in a crappy rocket ship costume – it was apparently meant to 'transport' the audience to the stars above – didn't exactly work as a formula to become an audience favourite.

* * *

As was the case every year the gamemakers were required to watch the tributes as they trained and / or epically failed in the grand room below their balcony. Even the Head Gamemaker was not exempt from doing this and so it was that Odysseus found himself seated on a comfy chair to watch the tributes go about their day.

It was getting harder every year to watch them as they did this. Mainly because at any moment things could go horribly wrong! Last year a massive brawl had broken out between the boy from Two and the thuggish girl from Seven. The year before that had been little better when a rap battle had broken out between Bentley and the boy from Ten, a battle that progressed to a physical altercation when the rap hating girl from One had ran over to punch them both in their faces.

Odysseus just wanted the training days to go without any damn trouble.

Admittedly it hadn't been that bad so far. The first day had been fairly uneventful save for the careers buddying up and showing their considerable might while the Twelve sobbed louder and louder. Oh, and who could forget the boy from Five outright offering to shut he Twleves up if the Gamemakers wanted him to, just so long as they upped his training score by one.

Admittedly Odysseus had found the deal very tempting and planned to do as he was asked. He could not abide crybabies.

But that was the first day, this was the second day. He just couldn't take his eyes away from Porsche. For a drug addict it seemed undeniable, and odd, that she had quite a talent to display.

A talent for camouflage.

It was the strangest thing, really. She had gone from looking, and acting, half dead the previous day towards looking wide awake and alert. The brush moved across her arms and body like a complete blur, various jars of paint open and being used in one grand concoction. When she was done she looked like she was covered in dirt and grass from head to toe, like she'd taken a dive into somebody's half-finished garden.

She lay down at shelter building training stations and suddenly it was like she had vanished into the ground. She was there, of course, but it was near impossible to spot her even if one had sen her lay down.

Odysseus felt a headache coming on.

She remained there for quite a long time, as if waiting for something. Her district partner ran by, chased by the savage boy from Two.

The savage leapt back in terror when she leapt up out of nowhere with a sudden roar. In moments the mockery and bullying was turned right back onto the instigator when it became apparent he had pissed his pants.

If that was the extent of everything then he could have let the feeling go and deemed Porsche as competent, yet one of many regardless.

It wasn't the full extent, not even close. Odysseus saw this for himself when it was time for the private training sessions.

The boy from Five had taken his turn and left not half a minute prior. Nothing overly special aside decent hand to hand combat skills, but a deal was a deal and Odysseus had him put down as a six instead of a five.

He waited for the druggie girl from Six to walk in. He idly wondered if she would be alert again or go right back to being completely out of it and dead in her eyes.

He waited.

He waited some more.

He waited a bit more than that as well.

She wasn't coming. The peacekeepers outside even reported they'd not seen her ever since she'd been escorted off to the bathroom over two hours ago.

"What do we do if she doesn't show up?" one of the lower ranked underlings asked. "Is that a default one, or does she get a zero?"

"There's no official rule, but I'd be inclined towards a zero," Odysseus replied. "No effort means no reward."

"I quite agree," one of the higher ranked gamemakers beneath him – maybe the third or fourth in command? – added as he moved to stand by a golden goddess statue upon a pedestal. "Honestly, it's no wonder a girl from Six has never won. They're all lazy, worthless beasts."

"Well that's not very nice is it?"

The gamemaker let out a scream, falling backwards into a punch bowl with his heart pounding. Nobody was quite sure if the stain on the front of his fancy jeans was punch or piss, but either way the man was pale in the face.

After all, the statue had come to life. She had her hands upon her hips and a very unimpressed frown on her face. She may have been gold all over, but there was nothing glamorous about the negative aura she emitted.

"What… how… ghosts!" the gamemaker swiftly collapsed into a faint.

Odysseus himself had nearly had three heart attacks at once. It was mere moments before a triple bypass surgery would be needed before something clicked in his head.

"…District Six Female?" he managed to stammer out.

"No. Porsche Margot London," the golden girl replied, pouting. "This is what I can do. Camouflage."

"How long have you been standing there?" one of the gamemakers asked, puzzled.

"About five minutes before you all arrived on the balcony," Porsche replied. "I blended in so well you lot didn't even see me."

In spite of everything the druggie couldn't help but snicker softly.

"How… how…" another gamemaker looked like her brain was breaking.

Odysseus didn't blame her, to be honest. His own brain was starting to hurt as well.

"I hid some paints in the vents yesterday. I just got into the bathroom's vent, grabbed the paint and then, boop, here I am," Porsche said, shrugging. She soon held her hands together in front of her, lightly bouncing on her heels. "So, how long until my turn is over?"

"Uh… about two minutes," Odysseus said, settling back in his chairs. It was going to be another one of _those_ years wasn't it? "You might have time to show us knife skills if you would like."

"No thanks. I was hoping I could just take a minute to ask if you could give me a score of… maybe seven?" Porsche asked, hopeful.

"Tributes do not make demands," Odysseus said, suddenly rather cold.

"I'm not, I'm asking," Porsche said, innocently. "I just don't want to be a threat or, well, seen the same way most girls from Six are. We're normally lucky to score a five."

The gamemakers weighed in here and there, some thinking Porsche was being a blatant rebel and others thinking this unique and highly original training stunt was so good that it was no big deal to give her the score she had wanted.

"Alright, fine. But be warned, you will not live long if camouflage is your only trick," Odysseus warned the golden girl. "This arena… it will require more."

"Who says it was my only trick?" Porsche asked as she headed for the edge of the balcony. "Oh, think you could give Trax a fair chance? Poor boy's been ever so nervous."

A few gamemakers seemed agreeable to this. Others just snarled at Porsche for her presumed cheek. The youngest intern among them awkwardly raised his hand.

"Uh, question?" he said, somewhat awkwardly. "…Why are you naked?"

Porsche just shrugged, not remotely bothered about the fact she was bare from head to toe in front of the entire gamemaker staff.

"Skin is easier to paint than clothing," was all she said.

The naked tribute leapt from the balcony and landed into a stumble, soon righting herself and heading for the exit. The gamemakers exchanged thoughtful looks with each other.

"Well, I liked her but overall I hated her," one of them said.

"I feel the opposite, but the same," another gamemaker chimed in.

"I need a damn drink," Odysseus moaned.

* * *

Odysseus was left confused, and more than a little worried, when the interviews went by. Sure, most of them were either impressive or cringe worthy in just how bad they were, but it was Porsche';s Games that were really making him fear what the hell this tribute might do once the gong rang.

She was, once again, completely out of it and practically zombie-like in how she moved and spoke. After her training session he was starting to wonder if this was merely an act.

But how could it be? All her groaning, weariness and slow movements were so clearly real. It would take a professional actor to pull that kind of thing off, and while Odysseus did not claim to know much about Porsche's home life he felt he could cross actress off the list of jobs she may have once held.

All the girl did throughout the interview with Caesar was mumble and slur in a broken, tired sort of way.

She left the stage to very minor applause, all of it coming from dedicated District Six fanboys, and it was clear few expected her to have a chance of living past the third day, or even the second for that matter. Perhaps not even the first.

Even so, Odysseus kept his eye on her without fail or pause. He was _not_ about to get thrown into Snow's trusty woodchipper because of Games ruining blunders that he could've prevented by keeping an eye on her.

* * *

Odysseus allowed himself to relax for the countdown leading up to the cornucopia bloodbath. For a minute nothing would happen. For a minute he could sit and admire the arena that he'd been the mastermind behind.

It was a format that had never been seen before and would never appear again. It was a massive train yard under a dismal grey sky with a light shower of rain falling from the moment the tributes were launched into the arena itself. Hundreds of trains lay unmoving while others were in constant motion around the tracks, some faster than others but all of them able to effortlessly kill anything they colliding with.

Ideally it would be a longer Games this year with plenty of cat and mouse chases.

The gong rang and the tributes thundered from their pedestals across several sets of rails towards the horn of plenty. It wasn't even half a minute before first blood was spilt and the boy from Twelve fell down with his lungs sliced open by a sword.

The carnage was brutal and raw, the four powerful careers really going to town on the outliers this year. Odysseus was very impressed.

Impressed, but also confused. He was shocked to see that Porsche, in spite of looking about as alert and eager as a zombie once again, had managed to wearily zig zag her way through the carnage and grab up a backpack and a camouflage set that had been placed inside the cornucopia for her.

Odysseus didn't think she'd live long enough to grab it and, if anything, had put it there to lure her towards her swift death.

Alas, things did not pan out as he wanted. He could only watch as the Twos butchered the Nines with grins on their faces and the Ones chased down the wounded girl from Three, oblivious to how the pair from Six were fleeing towards the north with actual supplies this year.

By the time the eight cannons fired they had both managed to leap up and grab the side ladders of one of the moving trains, swiftly leaving the careers behind.

"Keep an eye on them," Odysseus said, his voice already shaky and his face pale. "Don't let them pull off any funny tricks. I am not dying because a Six decided to be cheeky."

"Yes sir," one of his many underlings said, saluting him. "Shall we detonate the train?"

"No, not yet. We can't make it look like a blatant execution," Odysseus said, massaging his temples and trying not to cry over the idea of these two pulling off anything like the previous victors from Six had. "Just observe them for now."

Odysseus tried to relax, oh how he tried. But he just couldn't help worrying that this year another mishap would occur and his lucky would not hold out when he needed it the most…

* * *

Odysseus had gotten his wish of this being a fairly long Hunger Games. It was the sixth day and the careers had only hunted down two more tributes – a third one had died from being hit by a train – in spite of their excellent strength and team work.

The issue was how the trains scattered basically around equated to there being hundreds of hiding places. The doors between carriages were noisy as well, so it was about the easiest Games ever for the outliers to remain one, or ten, steps ahead of the menacing career pack.

Their bitterness over their slow progress was honestly rather funny to watch, Odysseus would admit to that.

But what he would also admit to not finding fun to watch was the pair from Six. The small boy and the malnourished girl. They'd not been doing much since they dropped off the train miles away from the other tributes at the start of the first day.

Thing was, he couldn't really justify killing them outright when it was clear they were doing _something_.

For days they had wandered around, taking samples of the dirt and the chipped pieces of metal that lay around the arena. Souvenirs? Stuff to throw into open wounds of other tributes? A sign of madness? Odysseus had no idea and that was exactly what worried him.

Each night Porsche would mix up the camouflage paints again and again, never actually using them either. She'd spent time doing this while Trax would scout around, collecting more dirt samples and watching out for any other tributes. Once they had almost crossed paths with the girl from Four, only to end up fleeing in the other direction.

The strange thing was that girl was just twelve. They could've easily taken her out if they had wanted to. Were they just cowards?

Things stayed this way for the entire first week and by then people were starting to lose interest in the pair. It was just what Odysseus had wanted.

It meant he could justify getting rid of them now.

But he'd wait until the careers hunted down the girl from Eleven. No need to take the audience's attention away from another brutal kill, after all.

* * *

Day eight was one that Odysseus had high hopes for. He really, really did. If he had his way the pair from Six would be out the way by sundown and there would no more reason to worry about them causing a massive mess for him to suffer the consequences of.

The pair from Six had turned around and were starting to walk back towards the cornucopia. On the way they were sponsored two items, a notebook containing a pen and a large bottle of morphling. Odysseus let the gifts go through unbarred; who was he to stop people wasting their money on forgettable tributes? That was how showbiz often worked.

He didn't react much when Porsche made notes on where the tracks were and where the rail switches were either. One of her few intelligible lines back in her interview was when she said to Caesar that she liked railways and trains. It made sense she'd find it interesting. In a way it was almost flattering.

He almost screamed when he saw Porsche gulp down a mouthful of the drug. Or, more, specifically, when he saw the result of her doing this.

She was alert and wide eyed once again.

The drugs gave her power!

Odysseus wasted no time after that. He ordered his gamemaker team to slow down the Six pair on their trek to the cornucopia and help the careers quickly catch up to them. They had a plan and he was not going to let it happen! No, no, no! Not when it was likely to get him literally killed!

Thanks to a combination of wind, trains and a few lizard mutts here and there it was all too easy for the Sixes to finally get seen by the pack of four.

Porsche and Trax ran for their lives, panicking and screaming. It was a long chase, long enough for both parties to start tiring out.

Trax was younger and tired out first. Porsche tried her best to help him, but inevitably the careers got him in the end. Porsche could only flee, tears in her eyes as the career pack cut her district partner to bloody pieces.

It wasn't just tears within her eyes.

There was _fire_ as well.

Porsche ran for the cornucopia while the careers, having lost sight of her in their excitement of committing another murder to add to their smaller-than-desired list, headed off after her in entirely the wrong direction.

Odysseus whimpered, hoping he'd not given Porsche a chance by accident. But, how could he have done such a thing? Her ally was dead and it was unlikely she'd get anymore sponsors than the little she already had. It was hopeless. Hopeless!

It wasn't.

* * *

The careers spent the night hunting down more tributes, without success of course. At this point they still had eight more to go and were starting to become erratic in their anger.

While the careers hunted and the seven other outliers hid away in the gloomy trainyard, Porsche was getting creative and showing off her artsy side to the nation.

She'd also gotten naked again.

Like she'd said in her private training session, skin was easier to paint than clothing was. As the hours dragged by she painted herself from head to toe in paint, sometimes taking the time to sprinkle dirt and other such things collected from the arena over her body. With the drugs heightening her awareness she was able to work with precision, incredibly care and genuine talent.

By the time she was done just as dawn arrived she had a full body coating of dirt camouflage on. Porsche laid herself down amongst the dirt and train yard waste to the right of the cornucopia and closed her eyes.

She'd basically turned invisible. If nobody knew she was there to begin with she'd be near impossible for anybody to spot so long as she stayed still and quiet.

The nation was impressed.

Odysseus gave in and chugged down two pints of strong beer. He had a feeling this was going to _really_ suck.

* * *

Three days passed by with Porsche laying hidden away in the dirt. Her bag of supplies was buried with her, her arena outfit contained within it. She'd completely dropped off the radar of all of the other tributes.

The careers were no exception. The pack were still hunting down the others – and still having trouble doing so – and resting at the cornucopia at least once a day. Sometimes they left a guard behind just to be safe.

Whatever they did, there was always a time frame where they were either gone or when whoever among them was present was off in dreamland.

This was always the time Porsche arose from the dirt to make her move. She'd sneak her way past the careers, take portions of their food and water, destroy most of what she stole and then hide herself back in the dirt.

The career pack had no idea that the tribute who was stealing from them was hiding right inside of their campsite.

They ranted, raved and did their best to set a few crude traps at the perimeter of the clearing, but the traps did no good because Porsche was already past them to begin with.

Odysseus watched all of this from his fancy seat in the gamemaker control room, anxiously gripping a large mug of beer. He had a terrible feeling about this girl, but he was not permitted to blatantly execute her unless she did something obviously rebellious.

Laying down in the dirt wasn't rebellious.

"Sir, we could spring a few traps on her. Perhaps mutts to force her out?" one of the underlings suggested. "We have lizards and snakes ready to go."

"No good, that'd risk harming the careers. We need them or there won't be enough action," Odysseus said, rather regretfully. "We'll have to hold back for now."

Odysseus stayed awake long into the night, observing the action displayed on the screens. The pack hunted down the boy from Seven after a long chase, the other outliers wandered aimlessly, the trains picked up speed and a small shower of rain began to fall.

All the while Porsche lay undetected and almost invisible in her pile of dirt. She only got up to dispose of more food and water of the careers' at three in the morning. What little wasn't destroyed she kept for herself.

"What's her game here?" Odysseus muttered. "A war of attrition? She must know that she'll have to fight eventually."

"In fairness, sir, people from Six often have fault minds. It comes from all the drugs and fumes," one of his higher ranked staff stated.

Odysseus couldn't disagree with this. Even now Porsche was sipping more of the morphling she was ever so dependent on. By the looks of things she was running low on her drug of choice.

Perhaps she'd die out soon after all.

* * *

The boy from Five was dispatched on the twentieth day after a duel atop one of the moving trains against the girl from One. It was down to the pack and Porsche at this point.

There was also a rather big problem going on. Porsche had been able to get rid of the last of the careers' food and water. Hungry as she was, the career pack were far hungrier. They were also getting thirsty as well.

Odysseus watched the many screens, wondering what to do as the careers stumbled around the cornucopia, all drained of their strength.

Porsche was in the dirt not even ten feet from the girl from Two, not giving any emotion away. Odysseus guessed, however, she was perhaps feeling a little smug. She'd started to drain the very life force of the careers from their bodies.

Not if he could help it. Six had only just had a victor, they could wait a while longer to have one. One and Two's tributes had both done much more than the druggie. They were far more upstanding citizens too.

The final eight interview had, after all, revealed that Porsche had no family at all and was stuck in a life of a half-starved drug runner for a fairly brutal gang. The same had been the case for her fallen friend Trax.

If nothing else it explained her addiction and why she and the boy had gotten along so well.

Still, it all came back to the same thing. Odysseus was not going to push his luck by letting the girl from Six be the victor this year. He'd not make it impossible, no, just… well, hard enough that it may as well be. No risks taken, no chance of a bullet ending up stuck in his brain.

He called for a Feast to be held at nightfall.

It would be at a turntable two miles to the north, one that had a fairly large stack of oil drums next to it. He knew for fact that the careers would find it fairly easily.

The careers soon headed on their way, confident they could either kill the last outlier at the feast or that after eating and drinking could simply rely on hunger or thirst to get rid of her.

They were a mile away by the time Porsche arose from the dirt, flicking away specks of filth and grime. She slung a bag over her shoulders, carefully looked over her very detailed notebook and ran off in the opposite direction.

Her only aid was a single, small vial of morphling sponsored last minute.

The moment the contents of the jar touched her lips it was like Porsche had come alive again. Odysseus watched her with great wariness as she ran towards one of the three major rail switches and used all of her might to pull it the other way.

"What's your game here?" Odysseus muttered, frowning with major unease. "Running away will only tire you out faster."

Time passed as the careers waiting at the area of the feast for the spoils to arise into the arena and Porsche continued to make a mad dash across the trainyard, even when the effort was clearly starting to hurt her.

Odysseus started to relax, reassured by his workers that the girl had gone mad and was only causing herself to tire out quicker. She'd be easy pickings for the careers or maybe mutts once the feast had happened.

A second rail switch was pulled.

Odysseus started to feel like he'd been acting stupidly all along, thinking a girl from Six could cause such a scandal that it would get him killed. He relaxed enough to agree to take part in a quick ten minute interview with Caesar about his thoughts on the endgame going on.

During the interview Porsche pulled the final rail switch and, tired out beyond belief, sunk down to sit against the switch, gasping and wheezing. She felt like shit.

It didn't matter anymore though.

Odysseus realised this far too late once he arrived back at the gamemaker control room and saw the way his underlings were gazing at him warily.

Of _course_ they were wary. Why would it be any different?

The feast had just begun, the table full of bread, meat and water having risen into the arena. The careers heartily ate from it, practically animalistic with their manners. Days of thirst and terrible hunger would do that to the best of people.

They were entirely oblivious of what awaited them until it was far too late.

"Holy shit!" the boy from One screamed, pointing ahead.

A train was rapidly approaching them, burning badly from at least four previous collisions. Another two trains were coming in fast, billowing out thick black smoke. It was much like a certain escort would say to a certain Mockingjay years later.

"Two hundred miles an hour and you can't feel a thing!"

Well, the careers certainly felt it.

The trains crashed upon the feast area in one cataclysmic explosion, the oil barrels bursting into a complete frenzy of fire. Two of the pack were killed instantly and the girl from One perished when a massive sheet of broken, thick steel fell down upon her upper torso.

The last one alive was the girl from Two. She weakly dragged herself from the wreckage, horribly scorched from the massive train wreck, somehow alive.

The sight of ten more burning trains careening out of control down the rails to where she was laying made her lose control of her bowels.

The explosion was audible across the arena and left an entire square mile in a monstrous inferno of wrecked and mangled trains.

In another part of the arena Porsche had only just gotten her breath back, slowly turning to watch the inferno from a safe distance. She stared in awe at the Armageddon of trains she had single handedly unleashed.

The train-a-geddon, if you will.

She didn't much away aside a smirk. It was just as she had thought from the very beginning. Take away all of the food and water and then the gamemakers will just have to call a Feast to prevent a complete collapse of the pack.

The cannons boomed one by one over the loud sounds of burning and ongoing explosions. The trumpets had to be slightly turned up to make certain they would be heard over all of the destruction.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, may I present the winner of the Fifty Sixth Annual Hunger Games! Porsche London of District Six!" Claudius announced, grand and ever so excited by what he had just seen.

Odysseus watched with a pounding heart as the hovercraft descended to collect the nation's newest victor from the wreckage filled train yard. He couldn't even laugh over the way she tried to quickly yank her clothes back on as she ran to the hovercraft, tripping over midway through pulling her cargo pants back up.

He'd just been sent a message by President Snow ordering him to attend a private meeting in one hour.

Odysseus sobbed into the desk in front of himself, knowing he was done for. Why oh why hadn't he just had the peacekeepers break the girl's legs down in the launch room?!

* * *

Around the time Porsche was stammering through her final interview and mumbling out quiet begs for a hit of morphling Odysseus was trying to stammer out an excuse to President Snow and beg to be spared.

Porsche was silenced by Caesar asking her if she'd ever considered morphling patches to help with her addiction.

Odysseus, meanwhile, was silenced by Snow simply raising a single eyebrow. The Head Gamemaker sat in almost a fit of pants-wetting-tier terror as Snow got up to slowly pace around the room, collecting his thoughts.

"Well done," Snow said after a short while.

"…Pardon, sir?" Odysseus said, stumped.

"Well done, you hosted another excellent Hunger Games," Snow said, a very faint sort of poisonous smile on his aging face. "The suspense on if the girl would be caught, the slow and tense hunts through the creepy train yard, the massive play at the end with the train crash… well done, it was brilliant. I don't know how you keep coming up with these ideas, but I'm glad you do. You're a credit to the Games, Toot."

Odysseus was practically ready to burst into tears of joy. He wasn't going to be killed! Oh happy, happy day! He composed himself, knowing that crying in front of President Snow was often a bad idea, no matter if it ended lethally or not.

"So, what will you be doing next?" Snow asked, genuinely curious. "You keep finding ways to top yourself. Surely you have a plan of sorts for the Fifty Seventh Hunger Games?"

Odysseus considered this, his blood pressure ever so slowly going back to normal as his frnatc heart beats slowed down. What plan _did_ he have? After the massacre in the Fifty Second, the tracker jackers in the Fifty Third, the rapping induced avalanche in the Fifty Fourth, the useless victor of the Fifty Fifth and the train wreck in the Fifty Sixth just gone… there was really only one plan that he could really claim to have.

"Honestly, sir? I feel like, after so many successes, it's about time I retired. I think that the time has come to give some new blood the chance at leading the Games. I'd rather take some time out, just me and my family," Odysseus said, trying not to sound like he was begging.

"Ah, I see. It'll certainly be a big shame that you won't be with the staff next year, but… I suppose after so many successes it's only reasonable you'd want a step back. Too much of a good thing and all that," Snow briefly shook Odysseus' hand. "Very well then, I'll make the necessary arrangements and have the notice put up for applications to lead the staff next year. Thanks for all your years of service, Toot."

"It was my pleasure sir," Odysseus said, his voice almost cracking from sheer relief.

Odysseus left as though on auto-pilot, stumbling along in a stupor of amazement and bewilderment. Against all the odds he'd somehow not been killed for all the near misses and the absolute chaos that went on behind the scenes of the last few Games.

He wished the best of luck to whoever took on the job next, not knowing just how much danger and stress came with it.

That night, though they never knew it, Odysseus and Porsche acted in complete unison with each other.

They stumbled into their bedrooms in a trance of relief at surviving a deadly, horrible situation.

They considered just how lucky they were to be alive when, by all accounts, they really shouldn't have been.

They changed into comfy pyjamas and picked out a teddy bear for the night.

They got incredibly high on morphling and lost themselves in a trip amongst the clouds, the fears and miseries of life left far behind on the ground for at least a few hours.

"Life is good…" they both slurred as one.

* * *

"Thanks for everything Porsche," Peeta whispered. "…Just… thank you…"

Katniss soon led her quiet and shaken boyfriend further down the street, thoughts of the girl who fearlessly leapt in front of the monkey mutts for the sake of freedom and Peeta's safety filling both of their minds. They soon reached the next victor of the many immortalised in the street.

The young girl who looked back at them clearly did not look to be quite on the same level of reality as most others. Her eyes were vacuous and wide, staring out at nothing… or perhaps that which only she could truly see. Her hair was long and flowed down neat and straight either side of her head. Tidy as she was, something about the girl seemed… off.

"Wasn't this one from the Games where almost everybody froze to death?" Katniss asked, recognition flickering in her eyes. "I saw a rerun of that one once… yeah, she was in the quell too. The poor women who died by that tidal wave."

"Yeah, I think this is her," Peeta agreed. "Arendellian Spinner III… creative parents, clearly."

* * *

There we have it, the tale of the female morphling! I feel like this one ended up turning out particularly well, especially as a lot of it just clicked right into place as I was going along with it. The camouflage was always there, but Porsche hiding within the career campsite was something that only occurred to me as time went by. Much the same case for the tale being told from the POV of the hapless, terrified Head Gamemaker. Given how absolutely deadly the job is, why not explore that and see just how much panic somebody would go through after barely surviving a few insane Hunger Games? Hope you guys liked it! Next up, a chapter I have been reeeeeeally looking forward to writing for quite a while now. See ya'll soon…

* * *

 **Stats**

 **District 1:** Peridot Gaudy (8th Games), Crystal McCree (14th Games), Bronze Marley (19th Games), Crown Martins (24th Games), Dollar Dettwieller (32nd Games), Mascara Court (41st Games), Platinum Twist (44th Games)

 **District 2:** Baron Overwhill (4th Games), Runa Peace (7th Games), Olga Machete (10th Games), Rook Valiant (17th Games), Boulder Atherston (20th Games), Vercingetorix Carnby (25th Games), Dragon Batofel (27th Games), Rhyder Overwhill (39th Games), Mercy Gregor (46th Games), Brutus Gunn (49th Games), Lyme Rabe (51st Games)

 **District 3:** Honorius Perthshire (5th Games), Pi Orbit (22nd Games), Beetee Latier (37th Games), Wiress Plummer (47th Games)

 **District 4:** Museida Selkirk (3rd Games), Mags Flanagan (11th Games), Tide Luther (23rd Games), Librae Ogilvy (35th Games), Anchor Paddock (52nd Games)

 **District 5:** Shunt Gaspar (12th Games), Isobel Sparks (18th Games), Crimson Flanders (29th Games), Porter Tripp (38th Games), Neon Erg (48th Games), Wattzon Holmes (55th Games)

 **District 6:** Chassis Macalister (31st Games), Bentley Corduroy (54th Games), Porsche London (56th Games)

 **District 7:** Pliny Aransio (2nd Games), Fir Buzz (9th Games), Jack Tylos (21st Games), Snag Nakamura (34th Games), Blight Jordan (53rd Games)

 **District 8:** Woof Casino (16th Games), Paige Murphy (30th Games), Spool Nylon (42nd Games)

 **District 9:** Mizar Aldjoy (1st Games), Gwenith Rosebud (13th Games), Teff Withers (28th Games), Laurel Flamsteel (36th Games), Tabbock Summers (43rd Games), Trevy Vex (Escaped 55th Games)

 **District 10:** Stallion March (26th Games), Lammy Phyronix (40th Games)

 **District 11:** Bear Redfoot (15th Games), Seeder Howell (33rd Games), Chaff Mitchell (45th Games)

 **District 12:** Duke Saint-Rose (6th Games), Haymitch Abernathy (50th Games)


	58. Arendellian Spinner III

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Hunger Games. They belong to Suzanne Collins.

 **Note:** Here we are, one of the Games I've been hyped to write for… well, ever since this tale began, to be honest? Diehard fans of The Hunger Games should recall a Games Katniss mentioned in the first novel that was unpopular because 'everybody froze to death since there was no way to make fire', or something to that effect. Katniss is not actually born yet in this year of the Games, but my head-canon is that she never saw them live, instead seeing a rerun of sorts. It makes sense to me that the gamemakers would settle the problem of tributes having no way to stay warm, and thus alive, sooner than towards the end of the Hunger Games era, hence them landing at #57. But, can such an allegedly boring Games possibly be given an exciting story to explain exactly what happened? You bet your ass it can! Read on and enjoy the tale of a girl and her 'imaginary friend'.

* * *

"So, you saw these Games," Peeta began. "I was probably too busy in the bakery at the time to even glimpse a TV. What was Arendellian III like?"

"Honestly, it's really hard to explain. They used some medical term to describe a lot of it, can't remember what, but basically… it was like she could see stuff nobody else could. Stuff that was never there," Katniss began, looking at the imprinted face on the ground with a slightly confused sort of look. "She never went mad from being alone in the cold, not exactly… she kept talking to some guy called 'Aaron'."

Peeta wasn't sure what to say for several long moments.

"She certainly sounds like quite the individual," Peeta noted, settling on his go-to plan of just smiling and being polite. "I guess the Capitol liked her?"

"Nope, she got thrown into the arena with a straitjacket on," Katniss said, slowly shaking her head.

Once again Peeta was left in a stumped sort of silence. The kind of silence where you frankly pray for somebody to say something, _anything_ to break it and then get left disappointed when nobody does.

"Wait, so you're saying she not only won the Hunger Games… she won without using her arms even once?" Peeta asked, stunned.

Katniss could only nod blankly.

* * *

 **57** **th** **Annual Hunger Games**

 **Name:** Arendellian Spinner III

 **Gender:** Female

 **District:** 5

 **Age:** 15

 **Kills:** 1

* * *

Schizophrenia.

A terrible condition to have, but certainly one that can be handled with the proper medication, patience from others and a good dose of genuine love. It might not always be an easy thing to live with, but it can certainly be made bearable. In the Capitol it was actually quite simple for sufferers to live long, healthy, happy lives thanks to all that their city of sheer excess provided for those within its walls.

The same was very much not the case in the Districts, including the industrial and polluted place known as District Five.

Life was cheap, as evidenced by all of the accidents that frequently happened on the job around the district. Electrocutions, lost limbs, fatalities due to chemical exposure and even the odd person taking an arrow to the knee, strangely enough. It was hard enough just living to begin with, so one could easily work out how hard it was to have any kind of mental health support.

Simply put, it was impossible unless you were among the richest of those in Five.

Arendellian Spinner III was not among those people. Her family were fairly poor, forced to live in rundown tenants out in the boonies of Five where hope was sparse and safety even rarer.

Her parents worked as low level security guards at a somewhat minor power plant. Her two elder brothers scraped out a feeble living to support the family by collecting various scraps and fragments from wrecked machines in the nearby junkyard, selling them on to buyers who may be in need of spares for a variety of things.

Arendellian herself had no such job. She didn't have any chores around the house either. She was, for all intents and purposes, deemed to be a complete lost cause.

Her family didn't even know what was truly 'wrong' with their little girl. Only that she was prone to violent meltdowns, panic attacks, screeching fits and then suddenly talking to thin air or, as she would insist, her best friend Aaron.

Her family and neighbours, in their more superstitious moments, wondered if it was the girl's name that had bought about some sort of a curse. The name 'Arendellian' seemed to just attract bad luck because both her relatives who had the name were reaped for past Games and ended up dead.

The first Arendellian was eaten by sharks at the very end of the Eleventh Games.

The second Arendellian had her eyes torn out and got stabbed a grand total of seventeen times in the Forty Seventh Games.

It sometimes kept Mr and Mrs Spinner up into the dead hours of the night, wondering if the curse would spare Arendellian over for another year or if she'd meet a worse fate within the arena.

The entire damn family was cursed from top to bottom, Arendellian suffering the full brunt of it. Nobody believed she was going to last a long time after her eighteenth birthday, assuming she didn't suffer the fate of her fellow name bearers.

The thing was, Arendellian did not see herself as being cursed, no sir. She didn't even realise anything was wrong with her in the first place.

She just liked being able to have so much free time to play with her best friend in the whole world, Aaron.

It was the start of the summer in the fifty seventh year since the Dark Days, one of the hottest summers ever seen in decades, and Arendellian was sitting on the roof of her family's tenant building to watch the first light of dawn filling up the sky.

"Whoa, pretty…" she whispered, raising a hand up as if to try and catch the light.

"It sure is," Aaron agreed, lazily laying down beside Arendellian.

Aaron was pretty much a normal looking boy, the same age as Arendellian right down to the last day. Lanky, of an average sort of size, a freckly face and charcoal black hair were the features of her very best friend.

She thought he was ever so tough to be able to keep smiling even when everybody else kept pulling a mean trick and acting like he wasn't even there. He assured her it was cool, he'd grown used to it after all, but still…

"What do you think will happen today 'Dell?" Aaron asked.

"Ummmmmm… I don't know," Arendellian said. "Maybe mama and papa will smile? I'd like to see them smile. They never smile…"

"It could happen. You gotta believe!" Aaron exclaimed. "You trust me, don't you?"

"Uh huh. I trust you," Arendellian agreed, mumbling softly. "Okey dokie, I'll believe."

"That's the spirit," Aaron said, patting Arendellian on her shoulder. She lightly flinched, only to slowly relax.

One thing that people needed to know about Arendellian before meeting her was pretty simple; she _**hated**_ being touched.

"Oh, sorry," Aaron said, stepping back. "Where oh where are my manners today?"

"It's alright," Arendellian mumbled. "So, um…"

"Tired of watching the dawn sky? Yeah, me too, this is lame," Aaron leapt to his feet, letting out a wacky bout of laughter. "Let's race! Here to the junkyard, let's goooooooooo!"

Aaron ran for the door, doing that odd thing he sometimes did when he phased right through the metal door. He was so lucky to have superpowers; it gave Arendellian no shortage of jealousy.

"Aaron, phasing is cheating!" Arendellian whined as she erratically ran after Aaron. "Wait up, you always win! Always!"

In spite of her complaining she was unable to help herself from giggling as she and Aaron dashed through the tenant building and off towards the junkyard about half a mile away.

She wondered why the residents of the building kept giving her those looks. The uneasy ones, the pitiful ones and the ones that were somewhat uneasily pitiful.

Maybe they were just as confused as she sometimes was when the walls began to change colours without warning. She never liked it when that happened, not when it was so startling.

* * *

The reaping was as sombre an affair as it usually was. The four living victors sat on the reaping stage in varying amounts of brokenness, none worse than Crimson. The reaping aged children tried to hide their tears and terror, all wishing that it would be anybody aside themselves chosen.

Arendellia remained silent, save the occasional twitch and mumble. She hated being so close to other people. It didn't feel right, the way they bumped their shoulders against her own and never stood more than an inch or so away from her.

Aaron laid a hand on her shoulder, giving her that assuring smile only he knew how to do. So long as Aaron was there Arendellian knew she would be alright.

He'd promised, sworn up and down in fact, that if she took a holiday in the Capitol then he'd come along with her every step of the way. He was already able to lurk around in the female tribute area right under the Capitol's nose, he could sneak onto a train just fine.

Arendellian smiled to herself. It'd be alright. So long as they could go home and play tag, how bad could life really be?

"Arendellian Spinner III!"

It took a moment for Arendellian to realise that the girls standing around her had suddenly moved to stand away from her, like she'd suddenly become filled with a disease. A few moments of the small girl standing blankly and lightly twitching had the peacekeepers moving towards her.

By that point Aaron had gotten to the reaping stage. He never did break out of the habit of cheeky teleportation, as much as Arendellian told him it made people ever so confused.

All fear went away when Aaron waved her over, a goofy grin stretching across and outwards from his face. Reassured instantly, Arendellian skipped her way over to the reaping stage before the peacekeepers could make a move to grab her.

She barely even noticed that the escort was trying to say something to her. Aaron mimed rapid fire talking and gagged with his fist into his mouth. The whole pantomime performance had Arendellian letting out a mad laugh.

"What's so funny?" the escort asked, puzzled.

"Aaron thinks you talk too much," Arendellian explained, her left eye twitching for a moment.

Everybody was silent, people either cringing with sympathy or wondering who this 'Aaron' actually was. The escort paused for a moment, unsure if she should be offended or if District Five just had odd customs.

"Good one Aaron," Arendellian said, giggling as she playfully elbowed the empty space next to her.

It was at this moment the escort swiftly moved to the boy's reaping bowl, hoping to end up with a male tribute who wouldn't leave her feeling confused. Surely the odds were in her favour for at least _that_ much?

It turned out they were, as the boy ended up being a burly eighteen year old who clearly came from a background where he was not constantly starving. If anything he looked pretty beefy and strong. Perhaps Foster would stand a chance of winning.

More chance than Arendellian at any rate.

After the reaping Arendellian was visited by her family, the whole lot of them crying and wishing their little girl well. Aaron held back at the side of the room, letting things play out without any interruption.

It was a while before Arendellian realised that maybe, just maybe, she should say something to her family instead of gazing around blankly.

"I'll be fine," Arendellian said, smiling. "Just a holiday. Just a few weeks with just Aaron for company and I'll be back."

Her family left the room weeping, knowing it was certain their little girl would never make it home. Whatever it was that made her see what they could not, it was surely to get her killed in the bloodbath.

The worst part was how she had no idea what was going to happen to her. She had no idea just how cruel the world outside of her little bubble was.

Arendellian was taken to the train not long after that. It wasn't easy though, not when she began to scream, writhe and thrash around from the moment the peacekeepers grabbed hold of her. She howled and screamed, hating every little moment of their ongoing hold. They ignored her cries of protest until the moment she was practically thrown onto the train.

Arendellian lay in a daze, her head practically spinning. Aaron glanced down at her from above, a disapproving look on his face.

"Alright, we're both thinking it, those guys were cunts," Aaron said, shaking his head. "Honestly."

"That word is naughty," Arendellian mumbled, shakily standing herself up.

The rest of the District Five team entered the train soon after that. Arendellian still hadn't calmed down from her previous meltdown, so it was no surprise that the instant the escort made the move to reach out at her – intending to simply tidy up her frazzled hair – Arendellian reacted badly.

An entire minute of screaming, panicking and smashing the objects around her followed this, ending with the poor girl fleeing deeper into the train. The rest of the Five team, naturally, didn't know quite what to say at first.

"Well, I never," the escort said, tutting. "There's being excited for the Games and then there's just being rude."

The escort left, claiming she was taking this as a chance for a bubble bath. The victors of Five took a few moments to silently glance between each other. Neon left quickly for the bar carriage, already starting to weep and moan, while Crimson and Porter made the move to start talking to Foster and learning about what skills he possessed. The Games had begun, after all.

Wattzon stood around awkwardly for a few moments, wondering what the hell he was meant to do now. Foster had been claimed as a tribute and, on principle, he hated hanging out with Neon at the best of times.

With a shrug he set off after Arendellian. She couldn't have gotten far, right?

* * *

It took Wattzon a grand total of five hours, forty six minutes and eight seconds before he managed to find Arendellian. She sat hunched up and cowering in a pantry, hidden away between a sack of corn kernels and a stack of cookie boxes. Aaron sat across from her, a sad sort of look on his face.

"You can't let them get to you 'Dell," Aaron said, ever the optimist. "C'mon, why don't we play tag and forget about it?"

"Can't forget. Got too close. Scary… wrong…" Arendellian shuddered, clenching her eyes tightly shut. "Aaron, what do we do?"

"Burn the escort?" Aaron suggested, uncertain. "I'll see what I can find."

Aaron took his leave, phasing away into the wall and the ether beyond it. Wattzon didn't see him at all, his attention having rested on Arendellian from the moment he'd silently opened the pantry door.

"Um… hey," Wattzon said, slowly approaching his tribute. "Arendellian, right?"

Arendellian didn't respond, only gazing at Wattzon in silence. She didn't blink particularly often as she looked towards him. It made Wattzon wonder how the hell he was going to talk to a tribute with such specialised sorts of needs.

He decided 'fuck it' and settled for winging it while hoping for the best.

"So, what happened back there?" Wattzon asked, already fairly lost.

"They touched me," Arendellian practically hissed for a moment. "I hate being touched."

"Well, I'm sure... um… they…" Wattzon groaned. He was shit at actually talking to just about anybody who wasn't Eunicia or Effie. "I'm sorry those assholes did that."

"Aaron was so mad at them. He wants them all burnt," Arendellian muttered.

Wattzon had no idea who Aaron was, but he rather liked the guy's style already. The latest victor of Five sat down across from Arendellian, waiting for the right words to enter his mind.

Suffice to say, they didn't.

"Thanks," Arendellian mumbled.

"Huh, what for?" Wattzon asked.

"Oh, sorry, I was talking to Aaron," Arendellian gestured to the blank spot beside her. "He said he thinks I'm doing alright. …He likes you."

"Well… you're welcome Aaron," Wattzon said, wondering just what he'd gotten himself into. "That's very, uh, nice of you."

"Wait, you can see him!?" Arendellian exclaimed.

"Um… yes?" Wattzon lied.

It was almost like a switch was flipped. Arendellian started to gleefully smile, wiping away her wet, salty tears as she rose to her feet.

"So, um… are you the one who will look after me for my holiday? My… what's the word… chauffeur?" Arendellian guessed. "What do we do first? If Aaron likes you then I like you."

"Well… uh… I'm more of a 'mentor', 'Dell. But… how about we get some cookies and watch some TV," Wattzon suggested, standing up as well. "The reaping recaps will be on. Your fellow tourists will be revealed."

"Sounds fun…" Arendellian mumbled. "…Hey yeah, that's right Aaron. You thinking what I'm thinking?"

A few moments passed in bewildering silence.

"No, not the burning cargo pants game, I think we should claim top bunk once we get there," Arendellian said as she left the room. "Honestly Aaron…"

Wattzon watched as his tribute left on her way, zig zagging along through the carriage until she left through the door. He could only sigh to himself as he blatantly stole a few boxes of cookies.

"Poor kid," Wattzon muttered. "She doesn't deserve this. She'll have no chance."

Wattzon paused, a thought striking him like lightning.

"…Then again, that's what they said about me," Wattzon realised. "Alright, let's do this. Just so long as she can get through the remake centre. Aw shit, that's gonna be 'fun'…"

* * *

Fun was exactly the word it wasn't.

The prep team of District Five were already stressed and bothered due to the nation wide heatwave that had been going on. Half of them were able to, for a time, relax as they prepared Foster for the looming parade.

The same was not true of the half who were given the order to prepare Arendellian.

From the moment they had tried to strip her down and put her in a tub of warm water it was like armageddon had begun. Arendellian panicked and entered a complete and utter meltdown, her hatred of being touched overriding any other thoughts or feelings. Within five minutes the prep team had ran away screaming and almost three quarters of the room had been left destroyed and smashed to pieces.

The peacekeepers were called to restrain her, but the stylist got there first. An up and coming star in all things fashion by the name of Elroy, he thought simply ordering the 'thing' to stop her rampage and grabbing her arm would make her cease such chaotic actions.

It did nothing of the sort. The result, instead, was Arendellian causing a very tiny cut to form on his left cheek and a few droplets of blood to faintly trickle out.

He was deep into a freak out of his own by the time the peacekeepers got Arendellian off of the ceiling fan and knocked her out with a syringe. He snarled like a savage by the time the emergency rapid-fire remake work on Arendellian had been completed.

"She cut me!" he screeched, practically hysterical. "She actually cut me! That horrid little savage! Oh, those district folks are all the damn same, savages and animals the lot of them!"

It took an hour of ranting, two hits of morphling and a large mug of cherry shandy before Elroy became anything vaguely resembling calm. Over and over he replayed the thoughts of the 'attack' in his head, more and more sickened by how the lower life form had done something so vile to him.

He was going to get her back.

As he sat amongst the audience watching the parade later that night, glaring at Arendellian as she waved to the crowds, he started to gain an idea. A rather twisted sort of scheme, but one that might be legally approved provided he went through the proper channels and especially if the audience did not like her.

It was time for revenge.

* * *

Training was hard and not just because of the terror of impending doom. The extremely hot summer was sapping the energy of the tributes from start to finish. It made it hard for the tributes to properly show off their skills due to the sweat, fatigue and wheezing holding them back for hours of each day.

Some tributes had issues moving around faster than an ambling walk for barely an hour. Others held in there of a few hours before they became terribly thirsty. Either way, the end result was several slow days without any action or highlights for the gamemakers to enjoy. There wasn't even a single case of a career threatening an outlier, the pack being too drained for such activities.

The heat ended up making many of the private training sessions suffer, tributes left either too tired to perform properly or losing their focus from all the sweating and gasping. Nobody managed over a nine and even then only Pluto from Two achieved such a score. The other careers scored eights and the outliers were between one and five.

Arendellian only scored a two, having spent much of her private session muttering inaudibly and foot racing Aaron around the training centre. Aaron won per the norm.

The interviews were similarly a let-down. Caesar provided refreshing drinks to the tributes as well as an on stage fan, but in many cases the sauna-like hallway they'd been waiting in had done the damage already.

Pluto lost his train of thought twice and had to take of his shirt (not that his fangirls minded!)

Surf from Four had trouble speaking above a whisper.

Groot from Seven was only able to say who he was before he fainted.

Arendellian for the most part shivered and mumbled under the gaze of the audience, overcome by the bright lights and the way a peacekeeper had almost shoved her out from backstage. When she wasn't doing that she was constantly asking Aaron for ques and, when the stress became too much for her, ran from her seat and told Caesar to interview Aaron instead.

To his credit, Caesar took her up on this and injected at least a tiny bit of life back into the disappointing show. His genuine attempt to interview what he believed was an imaginary friend and his comical responses to the invisible celebrity were often including on the 'top fifty interviews' lists printed and broadcast over the years.

Arendellian hid under her bed that night, huddled under a blanket. Hot as it was it did at least make her feel safer. Aaron eventually phased through the floor and lay beside her. Neither said nor did anything for a while.

"This holiday sucks," Arendellian muttered, helpless.

"Next time we should try going to Ten," Aaron agreed. "At least they have crispy bacon."

The pair remained hidden under the bed until dawn arrived.

* * *

The last breakfast before the ride to the arena was a sordid sort of affair, especially because Arendellian still didn't quite know what awaited her next on her 'holiday from hell'. While Porter tried to run over tactics with Foster one more time and Crimson left sobbing to meet one of her most repulsive 'regulars', it fell to Wattzon to get his tribute ready.

It was that or let Neon do it and the mess of a victor was already three bottles deep into his breakfast binge.

Wattzon had no idea what to say as the clock ticked ever close to the designated time for them tributes to be on the roof. He ended up saying the first thing that came into his head.

"You're going to be playing a holo game," Wattzon stammered out.

"…Holo game?" Arendellian said, her mouth full of cornflakes.

"Sounds fun, right?" Aaron asked, laid out upon the table.

"Very fun. Games are good," Arendellian agreed. "What sort? How do I play it? Um… is it, like, hard?"

"It's… very hard," Wattzon said, slowly. "It'll be a simulation, like you're standing inside the game. The rules are simple, sort of… um… aw geez… stand still until you hear a gong ring. After that, run away and survive until you hear a trumpet. You got all that?"

"Sounds… alright? I think?" Arendellian said, a finger to her chin. "Are the others playing too?"

"They are. Avoid them all. Do not talk to them or approach them, that's another rule," Wattzon said, hasty. "Just… be careful. You only have one life, no continues. Understand?"

Arendellian nodded while Aaron made a peace sign. It was just as well for Wattzon that his tribute seemed to understand what he had told her.

After all, it was time for her to ride off to the arena.

* * *

It turned out that, alongside hating being touched, Arendellian hated flying. She'd cried from the heat, been sick twice during the hovercraft ride and then had another panic attack. Even Aaron's jokes and ideas for games hadn't cheered her up.

The way screaming faces kept flicking in and out of existence on the walls had certainly not helped. She was amazed the others somehow didn't react. They were so very brave. Nerves of steel.

How would she be able to beat them at the holo game?

Arendellian was pointed into her launch room by a pair of burly peacekeepers, both wanting to be rid of her quickly. No sooner she shuffled inside they closed the door and Elroy approached her, two packages in hand.

"Your uniform," he said, cold like ice. "Put it on right now. You don't have long until the Games start."

Arendellian took one look at thick, fluffy plum red outfit. She glanced to where Aaron leaned against the inside of the launch tube, as if for a second opinion.

"It looks pretty fluffy," he said, shrugging. "Not as bad as it could be."

Arendellian smiled to herself, rather liking the outfit she'd be taking into the holo game. So fluffy she could practically die! Elroy watched silently as Arendellian quickly dressed herself and got everything into place.

That was when he smirked and took out a second package.

"You should know that not a single person bet on you winning. There is literally no stakes on you making it far in this and only a loss for viewers if you do. They think you're crazy and likely to die really fast," Elroy said, opening up the second package. "The gamemakers approved a, shall we say, pity gift for you."

Arendellian just blankly looked at Elroy. She glanced over at Aaron again, hoping he'd know what to say.

"That guy's a fat fuck. You should burn him," Aaron said, giving Arendellian a thumbs up.

All this made the girl start to giggle, something Elroy did not take kindly to by any means. He advanced on Arendellian with fury in his eyes.

"You won't be laughing for long," Elroy said, scowling. "Hold still."

It was a massive struggle, especially when Arendellian clawed at Elroy's arms and kicked him in the groin three times, but despite the havoc and hardship the stylist managed to get Arendellian into her additional piece of clothing.

He then tied all the knots and straps necessary while holding Arendellian face down against the ground.

"There we are, perfect," he said, stepping back to admire his work. "That'll teach you to cut my cheek. You made me _bleed_ , you savage! This is exactly what your kind out in the districts deserve."

It took Arendellian several moments to stand herself up properly. Mainly because she kept falling down and flopping onto her back or her front.

It was hard to do otherwise when she'd been restrained into a thick, padded, plum red straitjacket. Her arms were bound and immobile, any ability to use them taken away.

"Get it off! Get it off!" Arendellian screeched, trying to wriggle her arms around to no avail. Biting at the straitjacket was similarly useless.

Elroy only laughed, pushing Arendellian into the launch tube. It closed a moment later and started rising within the next minute. The last thing Arendellian saw of her nasty stylist was him laughing and smugly waving.

"Aaron, get me out of this," Arendellian mumbled, trying to stand herself back up again.

"I don't think I can. Those knots are knotted really tight," Aaron said, shaking his head. "Don't worry, it'll be fine. It's a holo game, time to have fun!"

"Hey yeah, it is! Play time…" Arendellian trailed off into a giggle, her head twitching to the side for a moment as the platform rose higher.

* * *

It was the hottest summer in Panem's history up to that point, uncomfortably so. Endless heat, constant sweating and even a fair number of objects across the nation melting from the heat.

The same could not be said of the arena of the Fifty Seventh Hunger Games. In fact, only the exact opposite could be said.

Based in the heart of what remained of Alaska, the arena was a complete and utter frozen wasteland. The cataclysms of the past had made the northernmost state far colder and inhospitable from how it used to be, even at its worst. Snow, ice and horrible, horrible coldness was all that awaited the tributes.

This was apparent from the moment they were launched into the arena and began to violently shiver. Even Pluto was unable to ignore the effects of the cold.

The cornucopia was already coated in thick snow and a blizzard was ongoing. Day time though it may have been, it was colder than a typical night. Far, far colder. Not a single tree was anywhere in sight, only snow and ice.

Arendellian shivered slightly less than the others did, trying to get her straitjacket off and keep her balance upon her launch pedestal. As she struggled uselessly to free her arms she could see Aaron had began to float around in the air beside the cornucopia, laughing like a fool.

"Aaron, come back!" Arendellian exclaimed over the roar of a sudden frosty wind. "You can't move yet, it's cheating!"

"I make my own rules," Aaron said in response.

Arendellian decided to be a good little girl and stay right where she was. She didn't want to lose the holo game so quickly, not when it had not even started.

The supplies at the cornucopia were plentiful, food and slightly frozen water in great numbers, with weapons, medical gear and even two portable heaters up for grabs. Nobody wanted to be lost in the cold without any supplies at all.

Arendellian did the same as the boy from Nine and the girl from Six either side of her. She got into a running stance and tried to spot something to grab. She figured the pink backpack about forty yards from her pedestal would be nice to have.

The gong rang and the tributes were off… slightly slower than usual due to how horribly cold it was. They, at best, traipsed awkwardly towards the cornucopia with the careers and the boy from Three in the lead. The boy from Three grabbed some gear and ran for his life while the careers armed themselves and prepared to start killing.

Arendellian paused in place, suddenly realising that picking up the backpack was going to be hard without being able to use her arms.

"What should I do Aaron?" she asked her friend as he floated beside her.

"Run? These people are crazy," Aaron suggested.

Sure enough around sixteen of the tributes had flocked the mouth of the cornucopia, desperate to grab one of the two heaters. Those not inside the horn already were either fleeing into the tundra or, in the case of three unlucky teens, laying dead in pools of their own blood.

Arendellian quite agreed with Aaron's words and, after grabbing a strap of the backpack into her teeth, made a desperate run towards the south area of the arena. Nobody paid her any mind at all, all of them far too busy trying to grab the heaters.

The careers had been knocked down from the sudden hoard of outliers while the outliers realised only too late that their constant kicking, punching and swarming had broken both of the heaters already.

They ran for their lives en-masse after that, grabbing up small scraps along the way. The careers got back up, but by then most of the tributes were gone into the snow. The girl from One barely managed to shoot at arrow off at the boy from Eight, only killing him by complete fluke.

The Capitol groaned over the four death bloodbath and how boring it had been.

The districts sobbed over the dead children who died far too soon.

Foster's mother, his only family, hanged herself five minutes after her son's cannon fired. She no longer cared to live, even with the money she had to her name.

Wattzon sat at his personal mentoring desk, observing how his tribute carried a backpack in her mouth and had no ability to use her arms. He felt like he was going to be sick.

How could she possibly win now?

"Whoa, check out that kid from Five!" Dragon exclaimed, amazed. "Is she trying to, like, win this without using her arms? Holy shit, go Arendellian!"

A punch to his side from Olga made him settle down, but Dragon clearly had his favourite outside his own district all figured out. Winning with no arm usage? Even he hadn't managed to do that! Mainly because he'd never thought to try it.

If Arendellian somehow pulled it off he knew he wanted to become her friend.

Wattzon just wanted a damn drink.

* * *

The day was cold to begin with, but things got far worse when nightfall arrived. It was here when the gamemakers realised they had made a critical blunder in planning.

The tributes were simply unable to bare the freezing temperature. Many of them had stopped moving, huddling in little balls or inside tiny caves.

Sponsor items such as blankets, heaters and such were bought by the audience and directed to be sent in, of course, but this is when the biggest blunder of the entire sixth decade of the Games happened.

Well, second biggest beside Trevy escaping that is.

Regardless, the blunder happened and happened hard! The gamemakers had been messing around with the blizzard settings to make patterns in the night sky for the audience to enjoy, not quite realising just how powerful the all new blizzard generators actually were.

They were strong enough to take the hovercraft out of the sky. It crashed into a snowy ravine at the edge of the arena, killing all who were onboard and ending up somewhere inaccessible for anything aside a ground team.

Naturally the Capitol could not send peacekeepers in while the Games were ongoing, so they were forced to wait until the Games ended.

The tributes were all on their own, even the careers.

The careers spent the night freezing their asses off inside the cornucopia, trying to stay warm within blankets. It wasn't easy and they hardly slept for two hours between each other.

Some tributes like the boy from Three, Groot and Bell from Eight huddled inside caves within the massive snowbanks. The latter two tributes had crossed paths but called a truce and huddled together to try and stay alive.

Some like Surf burrowed into the snow itself to escape the blizzard.

Some like Arendellian raced their imaginary friend to keep their blood running and eventually found an abandoned animal den to hide in. Ok, it was less 'some' and really only Arendellian who did this.

Most, however, lay helplessly in the tundra. It was far too late for them and before dawn arrived they'd drifted off into frozen slumbers they'd never wake from. In just one night seven of the twenty tributes had died, their cannons booming every so often, keeping the other awake through most if the night.

"So loud," Arendellian muttered, trying and failing to free her hands so that she could cover their ears. "Aaron, cover my ears!"

"I'll just phase through you, you know that," Aaron said, apologetic. "Come on 'Dell, it'll be alright."

Arendellian could only hope so. This holo game was nowhere as fun as she thought it would be. The cold, the volume, the hunger… why were the other players not quitting yet? At least the straitjacket was keeping her chest area slightly warm.

Warm enough to hang in there until the sun finally rose, something the boy from Twelve was unable to say. The deathly cold never have much to say.

* * *

Two days snailed by, far too cold for much action of any sort to happen. The arena was basically just a few square miles of Alaskan tundra with a forcefield over it, so the nastiness of the weather remained as it would in nature. In other words, far beyond the gamemaker's ability to control it.

The careers tried to hunt down their prey, but it was frankly close to impossible. They were having so much trouble moving around that they were unable to find any of the outliers, even those who were barely moving a few meters and slowly freezing to death.

In a fit of sheer desperation for supplies – they were, after all, oblivious to the fact sponsors had been accidently barred – Pluto turned on his alliance, cutting down the boy from One in short order and fleeing into the cold wasteland.

He was certainly more popular after that, but no supplies were coming. He wandered off aimlessly, furious and miserable over how the Hunger Games he'd dreamed of had ended up going. The career girls stayed together, heading away towards the north.

Arendellian had remained alive through the cold days and colder nights by messily eating the contents of her backpack and munching on the snow itself. She was shivering madly, but the straitjacket held back the very worst of it.

The races with Aaron in long, haphazard circles around the vicinity of the burrow also kept her active and therefore slightly warmer. As was always the case Aaron beat her to the finish line no matter how fast she ran.

"What do you want to do when we go home?" Aaron asked one afternoon.

"Stay in bed, hug my teddy and keep warm," Arendellian said, laying on her back and staring at the roof of the underground burrow. "So cold…"

"We could make it warmer," Aaron suggested, a mad grin on his face. "We could burn stuff."

Per Aaron's prodding Arendellian ended up stumbling around the tundra for two hours in search of some firewood.

Not even a toothpick was there to be found.

It was around this time that President Snow felt he'd seen enough and ordered the Head Gamemaker be executed, his children also ordered to die for good measure. The Games were a flop and such failure was not going to go unpunished.

Especially when watching these terrible Games seemed like more of a punishment than it normally was. Nothing was happening!

* * *

By the sixth day in the tundra hardly anybody was still alive. The career girls had frozen to death the previous night, completely immobile at the base of an insurmountable hill for a total of six hours before they died.

The same hill Arendellian's burrow had been at the base of. Using only her mouth she managed to take away the career's backpacks and claim the scraps of food inside. All too soon it was gone and the chilly silence was all that remained once again.

Even Aaron was running out of ideas for what to do.

"You should explore," he eventually said. "Go explore. There's nothing to do down here."

Arendellian was reluctant at first because of the cold outside, but it only took a few figures leaping from the walls and screaming in her face to get Arendellian moving once again.

For an hour or two the nation watched the last six tributes doing hardly anything at all. Pluto slowly walked one way, Arendellian roughly ambled another, Surf lay immobile against the cornucopia he had foolishly tried to return to, Groot and Bell huddled uselessly in a cave with the reaper practically standing over them and Rotor from Three used what little energy he still had to dig out a burrow down into the snow to evade the incoming blizzard.

Surf's cannon sent Arendellian into another fit of panic, hunching over and trembling from the horrible sound. She eventually managed to calm down but that was when another cause for alarm was revealed to her.

Pluto stumbled towards her, taking his sword out from the holster he'd had it sheathed in for days. Arendellian looked between him and Aaron, unsure of what she was meant to do. Hadn't Wattzon told her to never speak to the other players?

Pluto clearly hadn't been told the same. He weakly muttered out a request for her to die quickly and tried to swing his sword down at her. It was a close miss, enough to make Arendellian start to enter a particular nasty panic attack.

"What do I do?! What do I do?! What do I do?!" she screamed, scrambling to try and wriggle herself the right way around so that she could stand up. "Aaron, what do I do?!"

Aaron stood atop the highest snowbank that surrounded the impromptu battle site. He drew a finger across his neck.

"Only one thing to do. Eliminate this player," he suggested.

Pluto had assumed that, even with the nasty cold, it would not be hard to kill the crazy girl from Five. She lacked anything that made the previous girls from Five who became victors any sort of a threat. She didn't even have any usage of her arms!

He was right on all accounts, but failed to realise Arendellian still had one thing she could use. Two things, actually.

Her legs.

Arendellian was driven by panic, fear and a desire to do as Aaron told her. She awkwardly leapt at Pluto and landed a hard kick into his chest.

The next kick was a lot less awkward and struck him painfully in his left knee. The pain combined with the cold was quickly making it hard for Pluto to keep fighting, or even moving. Meanwhile Arendellian kept panicking and fighting, still having enough warmth throughout her body to pull off a few roundhouse kicks, painful stomps and even a headbutt.

It took three minutes for her to get Pluto down on the ground, his sword landing just out of his reach.

It took a further two minutes of kicking and stomping for him to finally die and his cannon to fire.

The massive boom sent Arendellian into yet another fit of panic and had her running away in search of any sort of a sanctuary from the horrible sounds.

Aaron was ahead of her, of course, suggesting turns to take every so often. Before long, though, she was simply too tired and far too cold to keep up with Aaron any longer. She just wanted to lie down and fall asleep.

She stumbled upon a nice cave near a cluster of boulders to do exactly that.

* * *

Arendellian was awoken by two cannons firing in quick succession during the dead hours of the grim night. Somehow they were audible over the violent blizzard going on outside.

Arendellian was only able to sob, a few tears ending up freezing as they cascaded down her cheeks. She shakily sat in the centre of the cave, rocking herself back and forth over and over again as the night slowly went by. Aaron kept guard at the entrance, always loyal to his friend. Arendellian knew she could trust him to warn her of danger.

Three hours passed before, at long last, the final cannon fired. This and the trumpets had Arendellian cowering and hiding away in the darkest, deepest corner of the cave like a little mouse.

"Ladies and Gentlemen! May I present the victor of the Fifty Seventh Annual Hunger Games, Arendellian Spinner III of District Five!"

"I don't want to play anymore!" Arendellian wailed. "Let me out! Let me out! I don't want to be in this holo game! I want to go home!"

"Let her go!" Aaron roared, facing skywards.

An hour passed by as a new hovercraft was finally prepped and staffed. It collected the bodies of the dead tributes as quickly as it possibly could. Finally, it slowly lowered down in front of Arendellian 's cave.

It was clear to all that a squad of peacekeepers coming in would only send her into a further panic and likely end up with somebody getting themselves hurt, perhaps even bleeding badly.

It was a good thing that Snow had foreseen this likely outcome and ordered somebody else to go along with the hovercraft to get the nation's newest victor out of the cave peacefully and quickly.

Arendellian timidly looked up at the parka clad figure who entered the dark cave, flashlight in hand.

"Are you ready to go home?" Wattzon asked her, slowly offering his hand to the tribute he mentored into a victor.

With great hesitation Arendellian slowly moved towards Wattzon. He quickly and carefully undid the knots and straps of the straightjacket, finally freeing Arendellian's arms.

Arendellian liked Wattzon. He was like Aaron, all things considered. He made her feel safer.

So much so that she clung to him tightly and didn't let go until she nodded off three hours into the flight back to the Capitol.

* * *

The Games had been a complete disaster.

Bloodless deaths, a major lack of screams, the tributes too cold to really do much of anything, no sponsors being sent in, the ruined hovercraft… a disaster.

As if that wasn't enough in and of itself, the victor was on a completely different reality to anybody else. One moment she was practically an innocent little girl, the next she could become panicked and animalistic in her severe meltdowns. All this and she won the games, killing the pre-Games favourite even, without using her arms.

The straitjacket had saved her life, its thick padded form keeping the worst of the cold away from her. The blame for it rested entirely upon the shoulders of Elroy, the man earning himself an all expense paid trip feet first into Snow's wood chipper.

After all the meltdowns before and during the Games, Arendellian was rather quiet and shy for the whole of the after events. She didn't say much at the interview, letting Aaron do the talking for them both – Caesar, naturally, played along without missing a beat – and only mumbling the bare minimum of words.

"What will you do now?" Caesar asked her. "You've done what only a few dozen boys and girls have done in the history of our nation. You're famous! Surely a popular girl like you has plenty of ideas for what to do back in Five."

Arendellian, dolled up like a princess in a pink ballroom dress and white opera gloves, glanced at Aaron for reassurance. Her special friend, standing beside Caesar, gave her a reassuring smile.

"I… I think I'm just going to play tag with Aaron. Maybe have a race," Arendellian whispered. "I might beat Aaron this time. He always wins."

"Well, we wish you all the very best of luck," Caesar said, a smile on his face. "Run fast and live free. Let's hear it for our victor everybody!"

The party was similarly quiet. By now the Capitol citizens were aware that approaching Arendellian in loud flocks was a bad idea. None of them could withstand the tiniest bit of pain and so none risked going too close to her. No autograph was worth a tiny scrape.

Arendellian spent the party sitting quietly by herself, carefully watched over by Wattzon and Aaron. She had a nice slice of cake to call her own, so what did she have to complain about? Her holiday may have been a let-down, but at least she could go home and settle into normality again.

She missed running around in places that weren't cold.

"So, ready to go home?" Wattzon asked her, his every word lacking certainty. He glanced to where Aaron was sitting, seeing nothing at all. "Are you ready Aaron?"

Aaron gave a thumbs up, sitting with his feet upon the table.

"Yeah, we're ready," Arendellian said, finishing off her cake. "This place is crazy, We don't like it…"

"They should all burn," Aaron added.

Wattzon gave Arendellian a comforting sort of smile. He couldn't deny how attached he'd became to his little victor.

"Just one more night and you'll be home," Wattzon replied. " _Both_ of you. I'm sure your family will be glad to see you."

"We missed them," Arendellian said, reaching for another piece of cake. "They won't believe how awful this holiday has been."

"Burn the holiday runners," Aaron added.

"…You'd be surprised. I think they would believe you," Wattzon said, awkwardly. Oh, he was so bad at talking to people. What was he supposed to say?! "You did great Arendellian."

"Thanks Wattzon. I… um… never… have to play that holo game again, right?" Arendellian said, wringing her hands and twitching in unease. "I didn't like it."

"Neither you nor Aaron will ever have to ever again," Wattzon assured her.

* * *

Wattzon, accidently of course, ended up being proven as a liar.

Years later after the unprecedented outcome of the Seventy Fourth Hunger Games there was a reaping like no other. A reaping of the victors of Five for the victor only quell.

Crimson stood shaking and sobbing, her life a ruin and fear filling her up. Porter managed to at least eye the cameras with an indomitable glare.

Arendellian was off in her own world, just the same now as she was back then. She was still innocent and within her own reality. Still side by side with Aaron.

"Arendellian Spinner III!"

Wattzon, himself up for the reaping and with a fifty percent chance of being picked, watched in pain as the peacekeepers had to lead Arendellian up to the reaping stage. Her responses to the escort came out quiet and distant.

She hardly seemed to recall she'd been in this deadly game once before.

Wattzon was wondering if he should play the Games for his surrogate little sister to win, only for Neon's name to be pulled instead. Between the screaming, drunken lout and his little victor it was an obvious choice of who to mentor and try to save.

He put all his effort into it, trying to get Arendellian at least one sponsor and telling her all the tips and tricks he knew. Crimson and Porter did the same with varying degrees of half-heartedness.

She managed a score of four this time.

She was hardly given any airtime compared to the Twelves and the biggest players like Gloss, Cashmere, Brutus, Enobaria… most of the tributes, really.

She faced it all with Aaron backing her up, an innocent smile on her face and a faint sparkle in her vacant eyes. She said she knew she'd be fine in the holo game so long as Aaron and Wattzon were watching out for her.

Due to her mental health Arendellian had not been informed of any rebellious plans. Wattzon hadn't either, though for the separate reason of how he had Capitol friends and wasn't known for his effort nor usefulness in victor circles.

He watched the bloodbath play out, Neon dying in the first minute while Arendellian ran away into the jungle.

Arendellian wandered around with Aaron for hours, fleeing from any noises she didn't like the sound of. She was starting to get scared all over again, vague memories of fear bubbling within her. Why hadn't Wattzon come with her, again?

She walked through the hot jungle on the second day, lacking any ideas of what to do. She turned to her oldest and most loyal of friends for ideas.

"What should we do, Aaron?" Arendellian asked.

"How about we have a race?" Aaron suggested. "Just like old times. Come on 'Dell, let's race!"

The pair began to laugh like children, sprinting through the jungle. They ran and ran, screaming as they went. Neither noticed that a new hour had arrived, and a tidal wave had became active behind them.

Eventually Aaron fell behind, amazed that he was being beaten at his own game.

"You're doing it 'Dell, you're doing it!" he cheered, gleeful.

He continued to cheer as the tidal wave consumed him.

Arendellian ran down one of the spokes near the cornucopia island, screaming ever so loudly. She kept screaming up the moment the tidal wave finally caught up to her.

She wasn't screaming in fear like the mockingjay, not far at all from her current position, thought she was.

Why would she be afraid when, after so many years of trying, she had beaten Aaron in a foot race?

"I finally did it! I beat Aaron! I won!" were her final thoughts as the wave carried her towards a cluster of trees.

Outside the arena Wattzon couldn't hold back his tears as the innocent girl he'd grown so close to left the world, a cannon serving as the final gut punch. Even at the very end she had still been herself.

She'd been happy.

"No… 'Dell…" Wattzon whispered, his hands over his face.

A hand rested upon his shoulder. It was with great surprise that he glanced up and saw Dragon looking down at him, hardly pleased himself. He'd always liked the younger victor who did what even he couldn't do; winning the Hunger Games without using her arms even once.

"How about we go get a drink in her name?" Dragon suggested. "A toast to one of the finest victors there ever was."

Wattzon couldn't find it in him to send the career victor away. He didn't want to be alone in that moment.

"I'd like that Dragon," he choked out. "I think she would have too."

Dragon and Wattzon left the mentoring area to start the journey to a fine bar fifteen miles away.

When the arrow flew and the arena was taken out both were out of the mentoring area and out of the violence and carnage that followed right after.

* * *

Katniss and Peeta held a respectful silence for Arendellian III. Upon concluding this they resumed walking down the street. Barely a few moments went by until they came across the next face imprinted into the ground.

The boy who looked back at them had long hair that flowed untamed past his shoulders with much of it fairly out of place. He had a cocky look in his narrow eyes and a reckless, irresponsible sort of grin plastered across his face. His look was completed with a bandanna around his forehead.

"Oh boy, this guy," Peeta said, a troubled frown quickly forming on his face.

"What? What did he do?" Katniss asked.

"It's a long story," Peeta replied. "But Yohan Fairbane's reckless attitude landed him in a self-inflicted hell."

* * *

So, that was the hands down coldest Hunger Games in history. Hopefully I did these Games justice that, presumably, the books did not, what with them being deemed a failure and fairly dull. I found it interesting to base some of the plot around the sheer coldness, from the weakened career pack up to the hovercraft outright crashing. No sponsors certainly levels the playing field! Beyond the horrible cold, I found Arendellian to be a fairly interesting character to write for, as in my view tributes with mental illnesses tend to allow for stories and events that you'd not see in the tales of tributes without them. Arendellian's bond with 'Aaron' and detachment from the reality in Panem was a fun perspective to write for, through the highs and lows. A tribute like her, I believe, could only stand a solid chance to win in a Games like these where nobody is at full power. Good thing she had the straitjacket to warm her up, huh? I do so love it when an attempt of sabotage ends up saving the day! Hope you guys enjoyed Arendellian's tale, and whether you did ot didn't we still have plenty of victors yet to come. Next up is a familiar face from Bloodline Betrayal, Yohan! Stay tuned!

* * *

 **Stats**

 **District 1:** Peridot Gaudy (8th Games), Crystal McCree (14th Games), Bronze Marley (19th Games), Crown Martins (24th Games), Dollar Dettwieller (32nd Games), Mascara Court (41st Games), Platinum Twist (44th Games)

 **District 2:** Baron Overwhill (4th Games), Runa Peace (7th Games), Olga Machete (10th Games), Rook Valiant (17th Games), Boulder Atherston (20th Games), Vercingetorix Carnby (25th Games), Dragon Batofel (27th Games), Rhyder Overwhill (39th Games), Mercy Gregor (46th Games), Brutus Gunn (49th Games), Lyme Rabe (51st Games)

 **District 3:** Honorius Perthshire (5th Games), Pi Orbit (22nd Games), Beetee Latier (37th Games), Wiress Plummer (47th Games)

 **District 4:** Museida Selkirk (3rd Games), Mags Flanagan (11th Games), Tide Luther (23rd Games), Librae Ogilvy (35th Games), Anchor Paddock (52nd Games)

 **District 5:** Shunt Gaspar (12th Games), Isobel Sparks (18th Games), Crimson Flanders (29th Games), Porter Tripp (38th Games), Neon Erg (48th Games), Wattzon Holmes (55th Games), Arendellian Spinner III (57th Games)

 **District 6:** Chassis Macalister (31st Games), Bentley Corduroy (54th Games), Porsche London (56th Games)

 **District 7:** Pliny Aransio (2nd Games), Fir Buzz (9th Games), Jack Tylos (21st Games), Snag Nakamura (34th Games), Blight Jordan (53rd Games)

 **District 8:** Woof Casino (16th Games), Paige Murphy (30th Games), Spool Nylon (42nd Games)

 **District 9:** Mizar Aldjoy (1st Games), Gwenith Rosebud (13th Games), Teff Withers (28th Games), Laurel Flamsteel (36th Games), Tabbock Summers (43rd Games), Trevy Vex (Escaped 55th Games)

 **District 10:** Stallion March (26th Games), Lammy Phyronix (40th Games)

 **District 11:** Bear Redfoot (15th Games), Seeder Howell (33rd Games), Chaff Mitchell (45th Games)

 **District 12:** Duke Saint-Rose (6th Games), Haymitch Abernathy (50th Games)


	59. Yohan Fairbane

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Hunger Games. They belong to Suzanne Collins.

 **Note:** Gee wiz, this decade of the Games is just flying by isn't it? Fast paced and notably Outlier dominated too. That's not gonna be stopping right now because here's Yohan, RIP careers! In Bloodline Betrayal he was the victor who was… kinda just there? Like, he never really added to the tale the same way Honorius did. Well, time for his chance to shine… and for us to learn just what happened that made him into such a broken, bitter recluse. Read on and enjoy!

* * *

"So, a long story?" Katniss repeated, curious. "We have time. Mind giving me the quick version?"

"Well, accidental kills happen in the Games. It's never any less horrible than a deliberate one when you get down to it," Peeta said, letting out a quiet groan. "Yohan… Beetee once said he accidently committed a murder, one he never recovered from."

"I'm assuming this isn't just a normal accident kill?" Katniss guessed. "Hmph, look me implying there's a normal kind of accidental murder."

"I know what you mean, don't worry," Peeta assured her. "You know the 'taboo', right? The one about killing your own district partner?"

"Yeah, that monster from the Sixty First Games sure as hell crossed it," Katniss said, a look of revulsion in her eyes. "Wait, so Yohan…?"

"It was an accident, but… exactly," Peeta said. For a few moments he said nothing. "It gets worse, unfortunately…"

* * *

 **58th Annual Hunger Games**

 **Name:** Yohan Fairbane

 **Gender:** Male

 **District:** 3

 **Age:** 16

 **Kills:** 3

* * *

Caesar Flickerman was a man who needed little introduction. Oh, he'd always have a grand introduction every year when each new Hunger Games began, obviously, as that was just how his particularly impressive job worked. But nobody needed him to be introduced to know who he was.

He was, quite simply, a nation wide celebrity who once seen could never be forgotten. Being the Hunger Games' Master of Ceremonies had a habit of making somebody memorable.

While Caesar knew he had originally been given a shot of getting on camera and interviewing tributes because his predecessor, Mortimer Minch, died off ass cancer on the toilet, but he liked to think he had kept the job because of his natural charisma, penchant for comedy and ability to quickly improvise and empathise towards whatever it was the tributes happened to say.

After all, teenagers were truly the most unpredictable of people. Keeping pace with one or two is hard enough, but twenty four every year from all walks of life? That took serious talent.

Caesar left his personal living quarters on the morning of the reaping for the Fifty Eighth Hunger Games in relatively decent spirits. The sun was shining, the stardom he'd spent his life at the heart of was about to begin once more and, to top it all off, last year's victor had even sent him a heartfelt birthday card the previous night.

Sure, the handwriting was a little wonky, but the thought was what really counted. That and the wine she'd somehow gotten hold of and sent along as well.

As was often the case Caesar quickly became lost in his thoughts as he rode a limo towards the main Hunger Games broadcasting studio to start the first day of his vital job. There was just so much for him to consider even at this early stage of the event.

What would the tributes be like this year?

What sorts of alliances and conflicts might form?

Which District would ultimately emerge victorious?

What would the victor be like?

Was this all worth it?

Caesar contented himself with a fine glass of kiwi wine as the limo got closer to its destination. Whatever the answers to his questions were, they would all be answered soon enough. When he was on the job he knew how to get any answer that was required to be, well, gotten.

After all, each Hunger Games since he'd joined the team followed a very rigid sort of schedule that never particularly varied. Even a no-rules no-holds-barred contest like the Hunger Games had a lot of structure to it, whether the general populace would believe it or not.

It always started from the moment the limo came to a stop and Caesar walked to the front doors of the sprawling studio, waving and smiling for the colourful crowds that would always, without fail, show up to cheer for him each and every year.

Once inside those doors the work _really_ began.

* * *

 **STEP 1: THE REAPINGS**

While the Games technically never ended for Caesar – such charisma and stage talent like his required year long practise after all – the 'official' beginning would always be when the reapings officially started.

This was mostly a time for the gamemakers to start voicing their early opinions and to interview the current Head Gamemaker on their personal view. Claudius, Caesar's fellow Hunger Games commentator, also liked to make early remarks and quips over the tributes based on what little a first glance could tell them.

Caesar preferred to wait until he had a bit more to work with before he could claim to really hold any sort of opinion. Tributes were complex, it had to be said. Even so, he'd always make sure to at least say something about them.

They were the nations' celebrities and no celebrity should be left ignored.

Caesar's comments were varied across the board, but as a rule he always kept things positive. Why lower somebody's chances before the gong had rung? That was simply unfair.

The boy from One was as muscular as a knight of ancient times. The girl from Two was clearly the most eager darling with how her eyes sparkled when she mounted the stage. The boy from Six was _not_ going to let his lack of a right hand stop him! The girl from Eight had the most amazingly well cared for curly hair a tribute from her district had ever possessed. The boy from Twelve was an amazing six feet and nine inches tall!

But, it was the pair from Three that really caught Caesar's attention this year. The girl reaped was known by the name of Meryl Fairbane, fifteen years old and already alleged to be as smart as Beetee with numerous awards to her name. It was obvious to Caesar that she was among the best tributes the technology district had offered up in years and could be a legitimate contender for the victor's crown.

Not two minutes later the male tribute was reaped. A rather scruffy looking hooligan by the name of Yohan Fairbane.

Meryl's slightly older brother.

Even when standing beside his sister it was hard to tell they were related, only proven beyond doubt when Meryl reluctantly confirmed this to be the case. It was like she felt embarrassed to be beside the boy.

Caesar believed he could see her point when Yohan let out an obnoxious laugh, remarked that Meryl was smart enough to get both of them to the final days of the looming Hunger Games and, to the puzzlement and shock of all present, took out an electric guitar hidden under his shirt.

He began to rock out.

One minute later the performance was cut off and the siblings were herded into the judgement building. The crowd gave an awkward sort of applause and soon began to disperse.

Caesar made sure to talk up Meryl and how her reputation truly spoke for itself. She was obviously a wonderful young lady who deserved sponsor support!

Caesar would privately admit that Yohan did not really have much that put him over Meryl, but that was never something he would say out loud. He instead remarked about his unquestionable talent with the electric guitar and claimed he could easily become a rock star if he ended up as the victor.

The Threes were held in high regard as the tributes began their journey to the Capitol, all thanks to Caesar.

Caesar spent his break alone in his own personal dressing room. The rest of those who worked alongside him at this stage kept talking about a nasty virus that had been going around Two for the past two years and how the intended volunteer, a 'walking war machine' called Matilda, had been too sick to volunteer despite physically dragging herself to the reaping. They called her incredibly tough, but wondered if the replacement tribute would be able to handle the arena just as well.

Caesar didn't take part in that talk. He chose to privately enjoy some wine and try to clear his head for a bit, listening to Yohan's rock music on loop.

It helped.

* * *

 **STEP 2: THE PARADE**

The parade was where Caesar felt he really shined. Well, not as much as he did at the interviews but still shining regardless. Commenting on the costumes, listening to all of the cheering, seeing the tributes making their mark on the nation… it was nice.

Seated high in the announcing booth beside Claudius, Caesar was able to be heard by all and get a perfect view of all twelve chariots. Not a detail was missed nor a single action escaping his watchful eyes.

Altogether, it made commenting on the parade ever so easy.

The costumes this year were, for the most part, of a fairly high sort of quality. The Ones were spray painted hold and covered in emeralds and sparkling fuchsia tunics, the Fours were dressed as a pair of fearsome pirates, the Sevens resembled grand oak trees, the Tens had been dressed up like demonic cows covered in dynamite and even District Twelve was doing better than usual. Their coal miner outfits actually fit the tributes this year.

Once again, though, it was District Three that stood out in most of all Caesar's eyes.

Meryl wore a grand metallic green gown covered in neon lights and flickering nodes, unmissable to anybody. She kept her face firm and showed nothing but strength and confidence towards the cameras. She was a clear hit.

She also inched as far away from her brother as she possibly could.

Yohan's outfit was covered in clockwork gears all over with a colour that Caesar could only guess was an offshoot of bronze in some way. One of the two most eye-catching things about him was the massive clockwork headpiece that clearly required good balance from Yohan to remain on his head.

The second was how he'd taken his electric guitar onto the chariots with him and was playing a death metal remix of the nation anthem for the crowd, head banging and laughing for the whole parade.

"Look at Yohan rocking out! What a charmer, am I right ladies and gentlemen?" Caesar declared with a laugh. "Such talent and precision, look at how his hand strums with such ease, I think we may have a serious contender for Best Entertainer this year, folks! If you'd like to sponsor Yohan in the coming days then dial up the number on screen!"

The parade ended and the very earliest betting odds were shown to the nation. Copper from One topped the leaderboard at 3-1 while Riggo from Twelve was at the very bottom with pitiful odds of 62-1.

Meryl had managed odds of 10-1 and Yohan had 25-1.

Caesar rather hoped the pair would end up with odds of at least 9-1 or better. He had a very good feeling about them and never liked it when siblings had to face the arena together. It put a completely unfair strain on whichever of them, if either, came home as the victor. They'd still lose somebody they loved no matter what they did.

* * *

 **STEP 3: THE TRAINING DAYS**

Caesar did not have anything much to do with what happened in training aside from reading out the scores to the nation. It just wasn't in his job description.

That said, he always received plenty of details of what was actually going on inside of the training centre. It was just another perk that came with being the Master of Ceremonies. This year it certainly proved to be quite the perk indeed as the events that unfolded during training were revealed to him.

The girl from Two had an allergic reaction to nuts and broke out with a bad rash.

The boy from Five got into a fist fight with the boy from Seven after an argument to do with their mothers.

The girl from Nine turned out to have a gift for using nunchucks and shurikens. She was practically a pint sized ninja!

Copper turned out to not just be excellent at dishing out cruel threats, but he was a natural with learning languages. He knew ten languages and used them to insult the outliers in rapid fire, a different language each sentence. It made the girl from Twelve soil herself.

Most interesting of all was the siblings from Three. While it was clear they had at least some issues beforehand, it became ever clearer what their problem was as the training days went by.

Meryl was talented and multi-skilled. It was all too easy for her to rapidly gain new skills and know exactly what to do in order to survive. She'd quickly gotten her head around first aid, survival skills and weapons such as spears and harpoons.

Yohan, meanwhile, just goofed off and sat around with his guitar. He hardly seemed to care about anything going on around him that wasn't his own specific interest. It earned plenty of ire from his sister several times a day, a shouting match breaking out more than a few times.

She demanded he work hard and train because his life depended on it. She screamed at him to get off his ass and put some effort into work for once.

Yohan simply strummed a few tunes and said he saw no reason to try when, as had been the case for so many years, his genius sister would just help him out of any situation he got himself into. He knew she loved him enough to not abandoned him to death.

Much to Meryl's fury Yohan was absolutely correct when he said this. Caesar had wanted to know more about this claim and sure enough reporters sent to get background information on the tributes did not disappoint.

Housework, tests, trouble in the streets… Yohan would always get himself in deep trouble through his own laziness and stupidity. Meryl would always have to bail him out of it while simultaneously working hard towards her own future she so desperately wanted to be worthwhile. Caesar had seen this exact situation many times in his life; a freeloader leeching off of a hard worker.

In his more cynical moments he wondered if that was how the districts saw the Capitol and how much it took from them. He did sort of see why that point of view could make some sort of sense.

Still, for all Meryl had to do everything for her brother, she could not do his private training session for him. All he'd been able to do was rock out for them and describe how to fix up a car engine, his one technology based skill.

Meryl, meanwhile, had aced survival tests, spared with a trainer using a spear, demonstrated first aid skills and even made a basic fire. All this and she had two minutes to spare, time she used to tie a variety of knots and quickly throw a few knives at a dummy.

Meryl's effort earned her a formidable score of ten.

Yohan's lack of any effort earned him a three.

Caesar felt bad for the siblings, both for Meryl having to play for two tributes at once despite how stressful this was and for Yohan because of how likely it was for him to die in the first minute.

Three never did have much luck in the Games in most years, but good interview could change everything. Caesar resolved to do his best and see if he might be able to nudge the Threes in the right direction for the Games looming ever closer.

* * *

 **STEP 4: THE INTERVIEWS**

The interviews were something Caesar had always enjoyed when he first started the job. It was, after all, the first thing he'd actually been able to do due to Mortimer's untimely demise just before the show started.

The adoring crowd, the showbiz, the top-tier dress code of the night and being able to meet twenty four fascinating people made it a night Caesar would never forget. He had been sure the Fifty Eighth Hunger Games' interviews would be another unforgettable day to add to the dozens like it he could still recall with perfect clarity.

The night started off very well. As tradition mandated the girl from One would go before the boy from One and so on it would go until the boy from Twelve finished off the show. This year the show was started off by Elegance Cox, a girl whose violent red murderous eyes were only watched by her bright red hair.

Her interview was ferocious, and Caesar was plenty experienced when it came to working with ferocious tributes.

Copper was similarly ferocious and cruel in his angle, but he mixed it up a bit by teaching Caesar a few basics of the mostly dead German language. It was, after all, one of many he'd taught himself to speak.

Nicolai from Two tried to play up a more 'cute killer' kind of angle, something Caesar found to be a welcome break from the typical, though always welcome, pure killing machine act Twos were known for putting on. It would certainly make Nicolai known for more than being 'the replacement for Matilda'.

Wolfgang from Two, meanwhile, did not deviate from the role of a killing machine. If anything he embraced it and then proceeded to run it for what, verbally speaking, might have been a hundred miles. Caesar was certainly glad he was not going into the arena with Wolfgang as he doubted he'd stand a chance against the brutish boy.

The careers put on a formidable showing as they did almost every year. It was something Caesar had grown to expect, the fact One and Two would start off the night with stellar interviews and often some rather creative, if grotesque, threats. They were four to watch, no doubt about it.

But next came District Three and this year Caesar was very interested to see what they would bring. The nation had become invested in the so called 'siblings who couldn't see eye to eye' and tonight was sure to answer a few ongoing questions.

Perhaps the technology district would stance a chance. Being stuck between ferocious District Two and on-again-off-again maybe-careers-maybe-outliers District Four often put the brainiacs in a very unfavourable spot.

But this year, at least they had a spot within the narrative.

Meryl came on stage and was an instant hit. The Capitol audience absolutely _adored_ her! Caesar made fond discussion with her about her stellar test scores, how easy she'd found training, her absolute love for books and how, apparently, she held the record at her school for holding her breath.

It was a grand interview that turned sombre when the inevitable was bought up. Merely relation to Yohan.

"I love him, really I do," Meryl said, sighing. "He just… he won't do anything for himself. He relies on me for everything. Tests, money, advice… you name it. If I lose, how is he going to win? If Three is going to have a victor, it either has to be me or a fluke has to happen."

"You're certainly selfless to help him out so much, even to your own disadvantage," Caesar said, all sincerity in what he said. "Do you think you can lead both of you to the finale together?"

"I'll do my best," Meryl said. "Leading us is what I've done for my entire life, and I'm not going to stop now."

Meryl left when the buzzer went off, waving at the crowd with an indomitable look of determination in her steel grey eyes. The sister was, by all accounts, excellent in her pre-games performance.

But, Caesar wondered, what of the brother?

Yohan came on stage, waving and smiling for the cameras. It was clear that he knew how to play to a crowd and get them to cheer for him and what he may do next.

Too bad that was the only thing he seemed to know how to do. Without Meryl giving him all the answers he clearly wasn't sure say. His words came out as clunky, awkward and spontaneous until he eventually just went into silence. He salvaged the interview as best as he could with a solo on his guitar – his token, in fact – but it was clear that he was already being written off as the latest let-down from Three.

"I'll see you guys soon!" Yohan exclaimed as he left the stage. "Keep an eye out for my debut single, 'Yohan Yells'! You know you'll love it!"

The applause was polite, but hollow. Very, very few expected the boy would come back and Caesar had to side with the majority on this one. He didn't see how it could logically happen, at least with the facts he had at that moment.

Still, he briefly took his mind off of the slacker and welcomed Mellandra from Four to the stage. Alas, Caesar found that even as he did his best to give the soft spoken fisher girl as best as interview as possible his thoughts remained on the siblings.

He felt bad for them.

* * *

 **STEP 5: THE BLOODBATH**

A twenty four person free for all generated ratings like nothing else in the Capitol, save perhaps for season premieres and finales of the legendary soap opera Fiona and Lawrence. It was, after all, the biggest ratings competitor to the Hunger Games.

Caesar sat at his commentary desk beside Claudius, ready to give a clear, concise and dedicated commentary to the Games that were about to begin. He paused for a moment to wipe away a brief sweat.

"Everything alright?" Claudius asked, slightly glancing towards Caesar.

"Just a hot summer. Slight sweat," Caesar replied. "At least it's not as bad as last year's."

"Heh, true enough," Claudius agreed. "Hopefully the arena won't be as bad. I'm all for taking risks, and I love tundra arenas, but… no, just no."

Caesar would've agreed completely that the previous arena was among the worst, if not _the_ worst, but they were given the cue that they were going live and the arena was about to be revealed to the nation.

The tributes rose into the arena and all cameras went live to show off the all new and – to Caesar's relief – vastly superior terrain than last year. It was a massive sprawling savannah, practically a safari from the lost land of Africa from the time before Panem came to be. Various animals grazed across the hot grasslands – zebras, giraffes, rhinos and the like – and wind blew through the trees and other plant life. It was gorgeous.

After the cameras took a few moments to show off the grasslands, the tributes reactions, the grand lakes, some immobile old jeeps and a lion's den the countdown began.

Caesar made sure to hype up as many of the tributes as he could in the time left, his tone fast and frantic. The nation had long since grown used to how excitable the man got in the final minute before the gong rang.

They loved it!

When the Games officially began several tributes scattered off into the depths of the savannah arena. Meryl grabbed up the nearest knife and pack by her pedestal and prepared to flee alongside her brother, no time wasted at all.

It would've been a perfect plan if Yohan hadn't made a foolish dash closer to the cornucopia to grab a sack filled with energy bars. It was only a moment before the boys from Six and Seven were fighting with him and each other to claim the sack. None noticed how Nicolai was creeping towards them, axe in hand.

"Looks like Yohan's ran into some early trouble," Caesar remarked. "The question now is simple… can Meryl get him out of this?!"

"It's not too late," Claudius agreed. "Ooooohhhh, but it's too late for Riggo! Copper clearly isn't messing around!"

It was a fact. Riggo lay dead on his side, his innards torn out from Copper's bloodsoaked scythe while the career boy let out a soft cackle.

Caesar expected that Meryl would fail to save Yohan and would have to carry the emotional weight of her dead brother with her for the entire Games. He was left stunned into a brief silence as Meryl charged towards her reckless, freshly bruised brother and bowled the boys from Five and Six down to the ground with one hard swing of the pack she'd scooped up.

"Meryl did it! Did you all see that? Two knock-downs in just one swing!" Caesar exclaimed. "Don't any of you count District Three out yet, they mean business!"

"So does Two by the looks of it," Claudius added eagerly. "Wolfgang just eliminated District Twelve for the year and broke Garrot's neck. Poor district Nine, they're out as well! Could Nicolai be about to take out District Three?"

It sure seemed to be the case, Caesar had to admit. The girl from Two loomed near the siblings, watching as Meryl scolded and snarled at her idiotic brother while the boys from Five and Six scrambled to evacuate the area.

Caesar braced himself as Nicolai moved almost close enough to swing the axe down onto Meryl's skull.

He couldn't help but cheer when Meryl whirled around and stabbed her in her hand. Nicolai recoiled in pain, granting the siblings enough time to grab up the gear around them and make a run for their lives to the north of the arena. During the retreat Meryl was hit on her left arm by a knife thrown by Elegance.

The fighting came to an end not long after that, the last bit of action being when Copper dragged the tiny girl from Five out from her hiding place under a crate and smashed her face in with a spiked mace.

The cannons boomed and the cameras began to show off what the remaining tributes were doing. The four careers were already starting to sort through their supplies and ready themselves to start hunting for fellow humans. The nine outliers who were still breathing scattered off in various directions, all looking for a place to hide. The typical stuff, really.

It gave Caesar and Claudius a chance to voice their opinions on who was left while the camera crews put together the highlights of those who had been eliminated.

"I think this is going to be a year for the career pack," Claudius said, watching as the screen showed the pairs from One and Two at the cornucopia. "They clearly have the power and the cohesive teamwork. Once again the two lowest numbered districts are providing us with a solid show!"

"You might be right," Caesar agreed. "Even with the original volunteer not present, Nicolai is showing she's made of tough stuff. That stab is hardly phasing her anymore. How tough can you get? I sure wouldn't be able to laugh _that_ wound off!"

On they went talking about the tributes who had survived the opening bloodbath. Mellandra ran for the thick grass with only a sickle and a gash on her arm to her name, her odds lowering by the minute. Thom from Five was bruised but very much alive. Despite being twelve he was clearly a scrapper and far from giving up, even as he limped towards a distant river. Roga from Six, well, he was still alive at any rate, there was that. Lark and Petunia from Seven travelled together in the general direction of where zebras would spawn later in the Games, a decent clutch of supplies between them and a few broken bones too. Woolworth from Eight headed for the high ground of the savannah, miraculously unharmed after storming the interior of the cornucopia. As for Digger from Eleven, he just cried and cried some more as he walked along. Expert claimed he was unlikely to stop for days.

They were all interesting to talk about, but it was once again the sibling team that held Caesar's attention the most. He simply had to direct the conversation towards them soon enough.

"I feel like they benefit from how there is no risk of a betrayal going on," Caesar explained. "Meryl will not kill Yohan. Yohan will not kill Meryl. It gives them a advantage the others lack."

"But Meryl's certainly giving Yohan the scolding of a lifetime. Think they'll be able to hold it together?" Claudius asked, watching the screen showing the siblings jog through the vast arena.

Caesar had to admit that the pair, though alive, weren't looking optimistic. Meryl did not hold back from berating Yohan for his idiocy and how he had almost gotten himself killed, led to her being hurt and worried her senseless. Yohan hardly seemed to care, merely happy to have claimed the sack of meal bars he wanted.

"We'll just have to wait and see. Anything may happen," Caesar remarked, pausing to take a sip of his water bottle. "One thing is for sure, they are the dark horses to watch. I cannot overstate that fact!"

* * *

 **STEP 6: THE EARLY DAYS**

It was always a busy time when the first anthem had finished and the survivors of the opening battle would start to make their mark in the narrative of the new Hunger Games, all with their own supporters and detractors. Caesar was a common sight at recaps, interviews, public events and even the odd smaller scale parade or two.

As was always the case his personal view on the tributes was officially 'neutral, but favourable'. He'd always have at least five pre-planned things to say about each tribute, all of them positive. After all, one never knew when a well timed praise of a teenager miles away in an arena could charm just the sponsor they needed to stay alive.

It wasn't all about fame, however. There was still plenty of work to be done! The tributes were almost always active in some way and he had to be there for many hours of most days to provide commentary and coverage over their actions. Not only that, but he had to be sure what he said suited the narrative and made sense based on how things were going.

He had to be gung-ho and eager when the careers went on the prowl for victims, finding and butchering Roga in short order.

He had to show some sympathy when Digger's crying passed the fourteenth hour.

He had to display encouragement and remind people to never count out the younger tributes when Thom managed to fight off a giraffe mutt with only a sharp rock. Being small could be a good thing.

The siblings were so dynamic that he could react to them in several ways. Amusement when Yohan played his guitar for his 'many fans'. Understanding when Meryl scolded him for almost giving away their position more than once. Worried when the pair got into another argument, leading into relief when Meryl would once again forgive her brother. As he was often claiming, the siblings offered a dynamic never really explored in depth in the Games before.

Siblings who did not get along at all yet remained together out of love – albeit mostly from Meryl's side of things – as siblings from past Hunger Games either got along at all times or had one or both die very early. Pi and her family were the 'worst offenders' of this.

Caesar felt terrible for the Twenty Second Victor.

Still, he kept his winning smile on his face and kept up his commentary as the early days of the Games passed by. Both Mark and Petunia had been killed on the fourth day after a vicious ambush from the careers, though both had put up a solid fight and left Elegance missing a few of her fingers, teeth and an ear. The once pretty girl was left moaning in pain hour after hour.

So much so that she collapsed from her wounds on the sixth day, left to die by her allies without remorse.

Just like that the tribute count had fallen to nine and Caesar knew it was time to move onto the next step of his yearly work schedule.

But first, he allowed himself to sit and watch Yohan playing another kickass tune on his guitar. It was obvious to the nation that he was legitimately a self-taught expert.

Too bad he kept luring tributes and mutts towards himself and Meryl, his foolishness and refusal to learn from his mistakes getting his sister more and more scraps and bruises as she kept fighting to keep them out of trouble.

* * *

 **STEP 7: THE MIDDLE OF THE GAMES**

The mid-point of any Hunger Games was a particularly busy time. The fan bases were bigger as the head count was whittled down, the betting was much more serious than before, the danger level was ever higher, betrayals were common and camera crews were readied to film family interviews as soon as only eight were left.

Caesar had been taking a quick break to grab some fancy food and icy water when Digger was eliminated, hunted down by the careers a mere two hundred yards from the lion's den. A shame really, he'd been a fine underdog with a knowledge of insects that left Caesar amazed.

Now, Caesar had little to do with family interviews if anything. He was never able to leave the grand city he'd been born and raised in, so he'd see the interviews at the same time everybody else did.

What he could do was keep hyping up the tributes and being the first to bring up all the interesting developments going on within the confines of the arena. All things considered it was a really strong final eight this year.

Though, he thought the camera crews better hurry up with the interviews because more eliminations seemed to be looming near.

Mellandra was out of water and wandered aimlessly for miles under the sun, trying to remember where she'd seen a lake two days ago. Thom had hidden himself within tall grass, taking a few hours to catch his breath back after barely evading a terrible rhino mutt. Woolworth watched the careers taking all of the supplies from Digger's corpse from behind a boulder, a disgusted look on his face.

The careers pillaged the supplies and wandered further ahead to where the lion den was located. Woolworth followed behind them, silent and strong.

"Oh, we could be seeing a power move from Woolworth here. Just look at his focus, that concentration, his ability to move without making a sound. Remember, call the number of screen if you'd like to pledge Caps to his sponsor fund."

The careers stood at the edge of the pit the den was located within, curious as it if anybody was hiding down there. They were unable to react in time as Woolworth charged forth, punching Nicolai into the pit, Wolfgang being kicked down a moment later.

Woolworth ran for his life from Copper, the boy only stopping when his allies screamed for his help. He returned to see the lions baring down on them, all eyeing them with hunger and hatred.

"Climb!" Copper yelled.

The Twos did, but it was instantly apparent only Wolfgang had the power to start his ascent to safety. Nicolai had broken an arm from the fall and had no way to escape the lions. She was eaten in under a minute.

The career boys ran off after Woolworth while the camera crew sent to interview Nicolai's family promptly left mid-interview, no longer feigning politeness and even calling the girl a letdown.

Caesar didn't know about that, but he did know the siblings were up to something special. They had found one of the old jeeps and began to work on fixing it up. Well, Meryl did at any rate. Yohan knew how to, but saw no reason to start working when it was a 'one person job' and Meryl always got higher grades than he did anyway.

"If fixed that jeep could provide the Threes with a serious advantage," Caesar said, watching with deep interest. "But if Yohan doesn't watch his attitude he might not get to benefit from it. Meryl's patience is running out. Just look at that snarl!"

It was clear that, after eleven days in the arena and constantly suffering the painful consequences of her brother's stupidity, Meryl was starting to eye her brother with contempt. Genuine dislike, even.

Caesar was asked what he thought would happen between them in the final days of the Games, but his answer was the same no matter who was talking to him.

"There are hundreds of outcomes, so many that I can't claim to know what is the most likely. We'll just have to keep watching and keep supporting them."

By the end of day thirteen, the day Woolworth was dispatched, the jeep was finally repaired and ready to drive. All that was needed was the siblings to get some rest so they could properly focus when driving it.

* * *

 **STEP 8: THE ENDGAME**

The endgame was always frantic, far more than any other part of the Games. Even the opening bloodbath when all was said and done. It was at this time when only the best of the best remained and a victor would soon be crowned, a life of celebrity stardom and riches soon to await them.

Caesar personally wanted one of the siblings or Thom to win, but he could see a case to be made for any of those left being worthy of the crown. Even Mellandra, if perhaps just from pity on his own part. The girl was terribly dehydrated and too weak to walk the remaining half mile towards the lake.

At night time the arena was generally inactive of tribute activity, aside the night owls who decided to try and hunt through the night. Copper and Wolfgang were doing exactly that, albeit to fairly low success.

Yohan was also awake. He'd been unable to sleep, all too excited about driving the jeep the next day. He traded places with Meryl, letting her sleep while he kept watch. She was, understandably in Caesar's opinion, unsure about trusting Yohan with keeping guard over her.

"Relax Meryl, I got this," Yohan assured her. "I'll play the guitar if any danger comes by and we'll drive off. Easy peasy, yeah?"

"…Ok, fine," Meryl said, already practically asleep on her feet. "Just… be responsible, ok? I need to know I can trust you."

"You can trust me," Yohan assured her, saluting for good measure.

Meryl was still uneasy, but nonetheless lay down to get some rest. She was soon softly snoring while Yohan kept guard. Fifteen minutes went by with Yohan keeping to his word, eagle eyed for any sort of trouble.

Caesar was about to commend Yohan for taking responsibility, but that's exactly when things went wrong. Yohan glanced down at Meryl, making certain she was asleep. He whispered her name three times, each time getting no response.

Yohan let out an immature giggle and practically pranced over to the jeep and clambered into the driver's seat. It only took a few moments of messing around with the controls before the engine came to life and he was driving fast and furious.

Caesar watched as Yohan spun donuts in the dirt on screen, laughing and whooping the whole way. It seemed like the boy was having the time of his life.

"With driving like that it makes you wonder if Chassis' would let him be a member of the Hazardous Hooligans," Caesar remarked.

With all the noise going on it wasn't long before Meryl woke up, dazed from fatigue. She was up and about the moment she saw what Yohan was doing. She called to him, demanding for him to stop what he was doing. Screaming that he was going to lure the careers right towards them.

Yohan didn't hear her, having turned up the rock music on the jeep's old radio. With one hand on the wheel, one hand used for fist pumping and his body leaning back, he was hardly paying attention to anything going on around him.

One moment Meryl was screaming for him to stop. The next moment a horrible crunch came from under the jeep.

A cannon fired.

Yohan slowed to a stop, thinking that some mud had gotten on his face. Caesar grimaced, starting to feel a familiar sort of sickliness forming within his stomach. It only got worse when Yohan realised it wasn't mud on his face.

It was blood.

Meryl's blood.

The girl's broken, crushed body lay on the ground not far away. In the course of Yohan's reckless joyride he had accidently run over his sister.

He'd killed his own sister by his refusal to take any responsibility.

Caesar found himself having trouble speaking as Yohan ran to Meryl'd corpse, pleading her to wake up. Tears flowed down his cheeks as he screamed and screamed, wailing out apologies and desperate cries for help.

Another cannon boomed. Caesar gave commiserations for Mellandra, but his attention remained on the irresponsible boy who cried and screamed for his sister to come back.

He stayed there for so long that the gamemakers had to use powerful gusts of wind to send him away while the hovercraft collected Meryl's body.

Yohan was never fully stable after that. He twitched and shook as he stumbled to the jeep, slowly driving it along with vacant eyes.

"He lost his sister, his happiness, his main advantage… what will he do now?" Caesar asked as Yohan drove along, weeping. "For the first time ever Yohan is going to have to make a decision… and make it without Meryl giving him the answers."

* * *

 **STEP 9: THE SHOWDOWN**

Caesar was known for giving a rapid fire and intense running commentary during the final battle of any typical Hunger Games. It was hands down the most epic battle of any year, nine times out of ten give or take.

This year however, Caesar was feeling a little out of sorts. He merely claimed a light allergy that was of no bearing to his long term health, but he knew it was something else.

Still, a finale was a finale and it needed to be commented on. It was easy enough to find the words say when Thom was taken out by both career tributes at once, not standing a chance at all.

It was harder to know what to say when the careers fist bumped and agreed to keep working together until the last outlier was dead, oblivious to the danger coming their way.

"Did they never get told to look both ways before crossing the street?" Claudius asked, amused at what he was seeing.

"It certainly seems to have been overlooked," Caesar agreed. "Watch out boys!"

They heard the engine all too late. Both turned to see Yohan at the wheel of the jeep, speeding right towards them. Copper shoved Wolfgang down and ran for his life.

The cannon fired as the jeep crushed Wolfgang's skull under its already bloodstained tires.

Copper wasn't quite so lucky. The first impact from the jeep left him with both of his legs broken.

The second was the one that killed him, his entire torso being crumpled beneath the tires.

Even as the trumpets sounded Caesar and the nation were treated to Yohan continuously running over the bodies of the careers, howling in despair and agony. But it wasn't agony of the body.

It was agony of the heart and soul.

Yohan was soon collected from the arena, another broken mess of a teenager, while the gore that used to resemble two powerful young men was scraped off the ground by some of the staff.

Caesar made all the expected announcements about the latest victor and excused himself for a moment, citing the need to take a few quick allergy pills and passing the spotlight over to Claudius for a short while.

He locked himself in his private dressing room for five minutes, not wanting anybody to see him being sick in the en suite bathroom.

Better to get that out of the way now than have it happen during the final step.

* * *

 **STEP 10: THE VICTOR INTERVIEW**

The stage of kings. The night of stars. The scene of celebrity. The victory's post-games interview!

This was another interview that would not go down as particularly popular. Dressed up in a fancy suit and made up to look stunningly handsome, apparently, the pieces were all there for Yohan to make an amazing splash as the nation's newest victor and District Three's first in years.

The problem was that Yohan was broken. Completely and utterly broken. Even when permitted to take out his guitar and play a tune he did not crack a smile. It was like he'd died in the arena alongside Meryl.

The goofy, irresponsible, reckless fool who was always smiling and laughing was gone.

Only a miserable, bitter, self-loathing shell was left.

Yohan barely spoke when Caesar asked him questions, and when he did it was hardly above a whisper. His eyes showed a sea of sheer torment.

The facts were indisputable. Meryl had always done all the work while Yohan did nothing. She took all the worst hits while he never had to try or evade serious danger. She had common sense and he had none.

…It was his own damn fault she was dead. He could blame the Games, the careers and the Capitol all he wanted, but it would never change what he knew to be true. _It was all his fault_.

"So, what do you plan to do first when you get back home to Three?" Caesar asked as the fairly tense interview came to an end. "Work on your music perhaps?"

Yohan just shook his head, lifeless.

"It's going in the fire. Music fuelled my recklessness. Recklessness was what got Meryl killed," Yohan couldn't hold back the sobs anymore at that point. "Fuck, Meryl…I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"

Yohan was soon led off the stage and the show promptly ended. None among the higher ups wanted the citizens of the Capitol to start working out the shocking fact the tributes were real people with real feelings, after all.

Caesar made a sympathetic statement about Yohan, wishing him well for the future, before signing out the show for the year and claiming he couldn't wait for next year to arrive.

Step ten came to an end. All that remained was to go home.

* * *

Caesar entered his grand home and promptly took a seat at his favourite chair, switching the TV on to watch the news. As always it was fairly mixed.

Mizar's health was starting to look a little concerning. Peacekeeper pirates had been spotting near Four, Librae of the Thirty Fifth Games vowing to take them out if they tried anything. President Snow's daughter had gotten engaged. Tag and Lammy were still together and affectionate as always.

Yohan had already been placed on suicide watch.

That was when Caesar turned off the TV, changed into a more casual sort of outfit and sent out to sit on the balcony, watching the stars. For some time the rich, successful, beloved Master of Ceremonies was silent.

"I used to love this job," Caesar said to himself. "Now it just gets harder and harder every year."

Caesar once saw the job as the perfect ticket to stardom and, well, it was. That much had been completely correct. He had such charism, such charm, such a natural talent for getting to know people he'd only just met on stage for all of a moment.

That, he supposed, was the problem… or, was it more of a blessing?

It took a while, but gradually Caesar had become very attached to the tributes. It wasn't just the victors he kept up with and knew the latest details about. It was the fallen he remembered as well, from the second placers to those who didn't even make it ten seconds into the Games.

He remembered the names of every last one of them.

How had he once genuinely loved all the gore? Caesar couldn't quite claim to know. He didn't quite know when he began to see there was something wrong with all of this either. All he knew that that he'd stopped being quite the golden pro-Capitol celebrity he used to be for a while already.

Not that the higher-ups knew. Caesar knew he was not above the law and couldn't simply resign like a lowly new gamemaker might. He was in this job for the long haul, however long that might be.

Well, if he couldn't resign then he'd do the next best thing. Keep on interviewing the tributes and hyping them up for the crowd. It was his own tiny rebellion, to ensure every last one of them had at least some chance of making it home. A chance for a life saving sponsor to change their fate.

So long as he wasn't obvious about it he could get away with it. Caesar knew he could be discreet.

He was, after all, a master of charisma and the social scene.

"May the odds be in their favour come next year," Caesar said, pouring himself a glass of wine.

Caesar drank deeply, wondering which tribute the next year he'd end up feeling the worst for when they met their fate.

He never would have guessed it would be the boy from Two. But, that's another story…

* * *

Katniss looked queasy at what Peeta had told her about Yohan.

"Killing his sister... all because of an accident he could've easily avoided…" Katniss went very quiet, her thoughts dwelling upon Prim. Her dear, sweet Prim…

Peeta gently held Katniss hand, being there for her for as long as she needed him to be. It was more than a few moments before they were ready to continue to the next face along the street.

Both stopped and stared when they saw whose imprinted face was looking back at them. This was a victor who needed little introduction. Everybody across Panem knew the girl who won the Fifty Ninth Hunger Games and, in doing so, used a very unusual weapon to set the never beaten kill record.

The girl who looked back at the pair from Twelve had a wild mane of hair that went far down past her shoulders, utterly untamed, and a rather crazy looking grin across her face. Her eyes were full of mischief and fire, all signs suggesting she was somebody to not mess with.

"Pasture Gallows," Katniss read.

"The holder of the kill record," Peeta continued.

The pair silently glanced at each other.

"The shoe girl," they said in unison.

* * *

So, Yohan, from irresponsible slacker to broken mess of a person filled with self-loathing. I'd say this certainly explains why he's so bitter and miserable in Bloodline Betrayal, huh? I liked the idea of his recklessness ending up killing his sister, something he cannot blame on others, only himself. A real wake-up call to how his behaviour sure wasn't helping anybody, least of all himself. How he lives on without Meryl bailing him out all the time remains to be seen. Hope you all liked the format this time around; Caesar's a fun, interesting character and I've always interpreted him to sort of be the 'token good teammate' of the Capitol if that makes any sense? I think it was fun to see his personal feelings on the Games after so many years of him hosting them, though hopefully it wasn't too jarring a shift? In any case, next up is a chapter I've been very much looking forward to. Stay tuned for the mayhem!

* * *

 **Stats**

 **District 1:** Peridot Gaudy (8th Games), Crystal McCree (14th Games), Bronze Marley (19th Games), Crown Martins (24th Games), Dollar Dettwieller (32nd Games), Mascara Court (41st Games), Platinum Twist (44th Games)

 **District 2:** Baron Overwhill (4th Games), Runa Peace (7th Games), Olga Machete (10th Games), Rook Valiant (17th Games), Boulder Atherston (20th Games), Vercingetorix Carnby (25th Games), Dragon Batofel (27th Games), Rhyder Overwhill (39th Games), Mercy Gregor (46th Games), Brutus Gunn (49th Games), Lyme Rabe (51st Games)

 **District 3:** Honorius Perthshire (5th Games), Pi Orbit (22nd Games), Beetee Latier (37th Games), Wiress Plummer (47th Games), Yohan Fairbane (58th Games)

 **District 4:** Museida Selkirk (3rd Games), Mags Flanagan (11th Games), Tide Luther (23rd Games), Librae Ogilvy (35th Games), Anchor Paddock (52nd Games)

 **District 5:** Shunt Gaspar (12th Games), Isobel Sparks (18th Games), Crimson Flanders (29th Games), Porter Tripp (38th Games), Neon Erg (48th Games), Wattzon Holmes (55th Games), Arendellian Spinner III (57th Games)

 **District 6:** Chassis Macalister (31st Games), Bentley Corduroy (54th Games), Porsche London (56th Games)

 **District 7:** Pliny Aransio (2nd Games), Fir Buzz (9th Games), Jack Tylos (21st Games), Snag Nakamura (34th Games), Blight Jordan (53rd Games)

 **District 8:** Woof Casino (16th Games), Paige Murphy (30th Games), Spool Nylon (42nd Games)

 **District 9:** Mizar Aldjoy (1st Games), Gwenith Rosebud (13th Games), Teff Withers (28th Games), Laurel Flamsteel (36th Games), Tabbock Summers (43rd Games), Trevy Vex (Escaped 55th Games)

 **District 10:** Stallion March (26th Games), Lammy Phyronix (40th Games)

 **District 11:** Bear Redfoot (15th Games), Seeder Howell (33rd Games), Chaff Mitchell (45th Games)

 **District 12:** Duke Saint-Rose (6th Games), Haymitch Abernathy (50th Games)


	60. Pasture Gallows

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Hunger Games. They belong to Suzanne Collins.

 **Note:** Here we are, back after a bit of an absence! Got busy in my offline life and had a bit of writer's block, but here we are once again with another victor! Introducing Pasture, the holder of the kill record and possibly the title of the craziest victor… oh, who am I kidding, she's not the craziest. Maybe in the top ten? Point is, I had a ton of fun writing about this wild hillbilly and I hope you guys will have fun reading about her. Let it be known now, only mess with the traditions of a daughter of a shepherd at your own peril…

* * *

It was a moment before Katniss and Peeta spoke. Pasture had a habit of letting her actions speak louder than words, even after she was gone from the mortal world. What was there to really say about her that hadn't been said on all the Hunger Games recaps over the years since her victory?

"I would've expected the holder of the kill record to be some vicious career from Two," Katniss said, her expression neutral. "Not a crazy hillbilly from Ten."

"I guess the Games are just full of surprises," Peeta replied. "Imagine if she had lived past the bloodbath in the Quell."

"She'd have been either a great ally or a deadly opponent, and I have no idea which," Katniss said, slightly shuddering. "I saw a replay once… I saw how she died."

"…How?" Peeta asked, slowly.

"The four careers had to gang up on her at once. Even Brutus was terrified of her," Katniss said, shaking her head slightly. "Not hard to figure out why, of course."

"True," Peeta agreed, gazing down at the legendary hillbilly's imprinted face. "It takes a rare sort of tribute to kill twelve people with a shoe. Can't blame anybody for fearing that."

* * *

 **59th Annual Hunger Games**

 **Name:** Pasture Gallows

 **Gender:** Female

 **District:** 10

 **Age:** 17

 **Kills:** 12

* * *

District Ten hadn't changed much in the years since its first ever victor, Stallion March, managed to run through miles of filth and somehow come out clean on the other side. Still numerous fields, still lots of ranches, still a slow paced and fairly poor sort of life for its residents.

Still a smell only the locals can truly get used to.

All that had really changed since then was Lammy Phyronix emerging as the unlikely victor of the Fortieth Hunger Games… well, unlikely to those outside of anybody who knew her. Those who did know her had been aware the Games were already over from the moment she escaped the cornucopia,

But for the most part everything remained the same and neither lifestyles nor traditions particularly changed as decades went by.

This suited Pasture just fine as tradition was such a vital thing for her family.

One would be forgiven for having to stop, stare and question if Pasture's family weren't just a hallucination bought on by a concussion. They were quite unlike anything else in Panem when all was said and done. Even Dollar's zombie survivalist family seemed to be at least a few steps behind them when it came to sheer kookiness.

Having come to Panem from the 'old country' shortly before the Dark Days, the Gallows clan had bought along a particularly large brand of bizarre traditions with them, each one seemingly more ridiculous than the last.

Clams were considered to be fine pets despite the notable lack of them in District Ten.

The motto of the family was 'The soil knows all'.

It was socially acceptable to eat grass.

Barbers were the manliest and most respected of people.

Unicycles were to be ridden before bikes.

Meat of various types and qualities was hung around at Capitolmas.

Eels being stuffed down one's pants was a sign of forgiveness.

All of this together inevitably meant that most people in Ten would make a solid effort to avoid dealing with Pasture and her family. Their grand farmland, though well cared for and fairly successful all things considered, was simply deemed to be a land of madness.

Pasture didn't really care what other people thought of her. Just so long as they didn't insult her family's honour the teenaged hillbilly was perfectly content with the way things were. Why wouldn't she be? Her name had never been pulled from the reaping bowl, she'd never had to go hungry in her life, her family were all close knit and loyal to each other, the delivery boy and mail girl were _really_ cute and sweet any time they stopped to talk to her and she was even the boulder tossing champion of her side of Ten.

Being fairly tall and exceptionally muscular would give a girl that kind of power after all. This and her untamed mane of red hair made Pasture somebody anybody could recognise on sight. Well, that and her rather quirky attitude.

She was, for one thing, known for putting potatoes in her ears to aid in fertilising them and occasionally dressing in what could only be described as a sea cucumber costume.

Apparently it was worn in loving memory of her ancestors.

Pasture stood in the seventeen year old girls' area of the reaping square on the morning of the Fifty Ninth reaping. Unlike those around her she wasn't looking scared as all, merely whistling a soft tune as she waited for the event to be over. Why worry over what you cannot control? Either her name would be pulled, or it wouldn't. She wasn't going to volunteer, and she knew nobody would do so for her either.

She didn't need a volunteer.

The other girls were amazed that the 'crazy hillbilly' wasn't afraid. Only two tributes from Ten had ever come home, putting them in joint last place overall with District Twelve. Being reaped was a death sentence, it was only a matter of time. It was why most of the girls, even the older ones, were sobbing.

Pasture gave those around her a comforting sort of look as the escort – _obviously_ dressed in a President Snow cosplay, the latest fashion craze – reached her hand into the girl's reaping bowl.

"Come on girls, tough faces. Brave tributes always last longer," Pasture said to the other girls, supportive as could be. She flexed for them. "Come on, strong faces! You're all tough, you just gotta show it off."

Alas, her words of comfort did little good.

"Pasture Gallows!"

"Right here!" Pasture exclaimed, raising her hand and puffing out her chest. "On my way she-who-lives-little escort girl!"

The escort was stunned into a silence, unsure what to say as Pasture mounted the stage to stand beside her. The girl looked wild and strong, a real contender for sure, but what she had just said… was she going to be another of _those_ tributes?

"Farewell they-who-cry girls and boys!" Pasture announced, so loud she didn't need a microphone to be heard. "Don't worry about me because I, the Daughter of a Shepherd, shall peel the onions of the careers and make them _cry_! I've got this under control."

She was certainly one of _those_ tributes. The escort could only sigh, wondering when she'd be promoted to a better district than this one.

A small scattering of awkward applause was given to Pasture, along with a triple bugle horn ensemble from her family off to the side. It was tradition after all.

The escort hurriedly reaped a boy – somebody who looked completely average by all accounts, a sixteen year old known as Horton Olas – and had the pair shake hands to finish things off.

As anybody could've seen coming Pasture's rough and excitable handshake almost broke Horton's fingers. He limped into the judgement building with Pasture proudly marching behind him while the escort could only sigh.

She hated this district.

Stallion and Lammy, meanwhile, wondered if they might have some kind of a contender at last. Pasture certainly looked powerful and fearless if nothing else.

But, was she too crazy?

* * *

Crazy didn't seem to even begin to describe Pasture when all was said and done.

Things started out normally enough, Pasture willingly changing out of her farmer get-up and into something more casual and even watching the reapings like a typical tribute might.

That was about all the time she had to spare for doing things the expected way. After that the 'traditions' began and sent the escort four fifths of the way to a nervous breakdown. Stallion and Lammy decided it was better to just watch quietly and not say anything until Pasture got it out of her system.

Horton just went off to his room, not wanting to get stuck in the middle of any craziness from the Gallows girl.

By the time the train reached the Capitol the escort ran out the doorway screaming and flailing her arms, her fake beard coming loose in the process. In retrospect it was hard to blame her for this.

In the long train ride Pasture had sang a loud folk song about 'Grimmelheid the Turnip Witch', hung up garlic scented shrunken heads to ward off 'evil goblins', sang another loud song known only as 'That's My Horse', thrown out all the combs on board the train for being allegedly untrustworthy and even baked some particularly repulsive fish balls for breakfast.

Pasture remained oblivious to the stares she was receiving from those who thought she was mad, merely waving to the colourful crowd and pounding her chest. The time was now to show she was a strong contender after all.

"Hello-hello, they-who-cheer feather people!" Pasture exclaimed, flexing as she waved to the cheering crowd. "Who is ready for action!? Let me hear those cheers!"

The crowd cheered all the louder, starting to look past the girl's craziness. If she was going to bring a huge, bloody amount of violence with her then who were they to complain?

Stallion led Horton out, trying to get some eyes on his tribute. Lammy shyly waved to the crowd as she bought up the rear, feeling for the first time in the decade that she had a serious fighter under her care.

Risky as it was to have hope for anything in Panem, she regardless had hope this year might be Ten's year.

* * *

The parade had gone off without a hitch for District Ten. Horton was able to hold back any signs of fear as he smiled and waved, while Pasture… she'd been a natural. Dressed up in what could only be described as a 'butcher bikini' and with blood coloured war paint marked across her face and abs Pasture looked ferocious.

She'd played to the crowd with ease, flexing and waving for the whole parade. The Capitol was rarely in favour of District Ten winning, but this year was clearly the exception to the normal rule. The careers had plenty of fans, sure, but Pasture's name was easily able to be heard being chanted by the colourful crowd.

The careers certainly didn't miss how Pasture had stolen so much of the spotlight. Neither did most of the other tributes, many among them glaring at Pasture in envy.

Pasture hardly even noticed them, merely beaming at the thought of how proud her family would be and how she was the first of the family in over forty generations to ride in a chariot. How very fancy!

* * *

Pasture took to the training centre just as well as she took to farming. Being so damn strong it was easy for her to run laps, power lift with the weights, throw fairly heavy metal balls over fifteen feet away and easily overpower trainers in hand to hand combat sparring sessions.

Many outliers such as those from Three, Four, Seven and the boy from Eleven watched her with envy and more than a bit of anger. The careers always had the lion's share of sponsors with the rest having to share out the bottom dregs… dregs they would get none of because Pasture was so damn strong!

She remained oblivious to their anger, merely working out with a smile on her face and a fond whistle passing through her lips. As far as she was concerned this was a fine way to spend her day.

It was after lunchtime – in itself an odd event due to Pasture somehow eating over twenty pounds of meat all by herself – when the careers finally approached her. They didn't come baring threats nor insults, but rather an offer to join their alliance.

"No thanks," Pasture replied, midway through a power lifting session. "I shan't be needing anybody's help, snake-in-the-grass career tributes."

"Snake?" the boy from One repeated, annoyed.

"Yes, snake. Long creatures without limbs or much aspirations. Scaly and plenty rotten. Snakes," Pasture gestured to some weights left unused on the ground. "More weight, please?"

The boy from One shrugged, doing as he was asked. The boy from Two, Tandarick, wasn't pleased with Pasture's answer and made this particularly clear.

"Uh, do you know who you are talking to? We're the career pack, we're the strongest tributes in the Games," Tandarick moved closer to Pasture, nothing but malice within his eyes. "Do you really think telling us 'no' is a good idea? If you aren't with us the only place to be is against us."

"That would end up being true anyway once the alliance crumbles he-who-complains," Pasture replied, not having ceased powerlifting while the conversation went on. "I'll be just fine by myself. The daughter of a shepherd shan't need help."

"Just keep telling yourself that. None of the other tributes seem to like you very much. Think you can take on the four of us? Try the twenty three people here besides yourself," Tandarick scowled, turning to leave. "C'mon guys, she had her chance. Let it not be said we didn't try to extend an olive branch."

"Some people just don't know what's best for themselves," the girl from Two, Yaxlee, agreed.

"Do ya'll know? Did you, or did you not, volunteer for a twenty three in twenty four chance of dying, fool hardly career boys… and girls?" Pasture asked, a cheeky smirk on her face.

The careers left without another word. They resumed training, all four of them focused on specialised weapons such as bolas, a kusarigama, bladed boomerangs and a double sided halberd. All were confident with their weapons and focused on nothing else.

Pasture paid the 'snake-in-the-grass careers' little mind. The other outliers got a little more of her attention. It was just as Tandarick had said, they clearly did not like her. With the exception of Horton and the tiny boy from Nine they all took a moment to glare at her here and there.

They all looked away whenever they noticed Pasture was looking back at them.

Pasture wasn't bothered by people not liking her. She was self-aware enough to understand her family weren't exactly popular back home in Ten. Even so, she didn't want these kids to fill their hearts with hate in what was likely to be their final days. What good did hate ever do for anybody?

After another twenty minutes of power lifting the daughter of a shepherd came up with the perfect plan.

* * *

It was lunchtime the next day when all of the tributes were met with quite the surprise. They entered the canteen to see that Pasture was already there, having gotten the staff to cook up a special sort of food as a peace offering.

Admittedly the staff only agreed because they thought the reactions of the other tributes would be funny.

After all, it was some rather suspicious looking sea cucumber balls that were on the menu.

"What the hell is this?" Tandarick asked, lost.

"I was hoping for pork chops," the girl from Twelve mumbled, already looking depressed.

"Feh, cast pork chops out of your mind go-go miner girl," Pasture replied, casually walking around the large canteen to lay down a plate of sea cucumber balls in front of each of the tributes. "Let the feast of the peace balls commence!"

"Peace balls?" the drug runner boy from Six asked.

"Yes, peace balls. A tradition of the Gallows clan he-who-smokes-fumes. After a dispute has been recognised the peace balls made of imported sea cucumbers are offered as a sign of sorriness," Pasture casually took a bite of one of the balls left for herself. "Mmmm, crunchy! Feast away, friends locked into shared misery, and let us move on from the parade!"

Some of the more tactful tributes – or those who didn't want to make the muscular hillbilly mad – sucked it up and began to eat the rather gross sea cucumber balls. Alas, this really meant that only Horton, the boy from Nine, the girl from Eight and the girl from Three did so. The other nineteen tributes had no such tact nor care for offending the hillbilly's customs.

This was made apparent when Tandarick bet his allies he could get Pasture exactly between the eyes and took aim. The squishy ball hurtled through the air, splatting right on target in Pasture's face. With the leader of the careers having done this it was only a moment before the other careers did the same.

Naturally, nobody wanted to stick out to the careers as pro-Pasture after that and the outliers, many of them still sore at Pasture even with the offering of peace, pelted Pasture with the pickled produce. Pretty painful!

Pasture was rooted to the spot, the remnants of the rather odorous sea cucumber balls dropping off of her face, hair and clothes. She appeared to be genuinely heartbroken that her offer of peace had been so callously rejected.

The instant that the careers began to lead the outliers who threw the food in a sort of jeering schoolyard chant was the instant the war truly began.

Mainly as Pasture flipped a table over like it weighed nothing and flash stepped right up to Tandarick's face. She glared at him with the fire of a thousand supernova's, her death glare soon meeting the eyes of all the other food throwers.

"You dare… you _**DARE**_ offend the honour of the daughter of a shepherd's ancestors and traditions?!" Pasture screeched, loud enough to almost have several ears bleeding. "You threw the sacred offering, you sang the Melody of Mockery… and now you have the absolute gaul to not provide me with the cupcakes of sorriness?! YOU HAVE MADE A GRAVE MISTAKE!"

By now several outliers were looking scared, Horton looked embarrassed and even the careers, sans Tandarick, were looking a little unnerved.

"Fuck off hillbilly," Tandarick spat, very much unimpressed.

"No, it shall be you who 'fucks off' snake-in-the-grass career boy! You offended my customs. This requires that I respond in only one way. The shoe of power!" Pasture narrowed her eyes, her hands upon her hips. "Only then can my family's honour be reclaimed."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Come back from crazy land when you feel ready to play the Games like a normal human being," Tandarick said, getting up to leave.

"Don't you dare turn your back on me. You have no idea what awaits you if you do," Pasture whispered, almost sounding like she was on some level trying to reason with Tandarick.

"Or what?" the career boy asked, dull.

"The duel of reckoning will await you," Pasture warned.

Tandarick just laughed and kept his back turned as he left the lunchroom. The other tributes soon followed him out, not wanting to stay close to the crazy country girl any longer.

"…You brought this upon yourselves, hearts-in-the-dirt tributes," Pasture said, her fists clenching.

* * *

The fire within Pasture had been lit and she declared she was no longer going to hold anything back.

The other tributes didn't care at first, seeing the girl as just another blowhard in the Games. Not the first nor the last. However, Pasture's absolute rampage in the private training session ended up with her being the first tribute in the history of Ten – and the only one who ever did come the end of the Games – who managed to score an eleven. Even Tandarick had only scored a ten.

The careers were not worried, mainly due to their number advantage and how they hadn't seen any evidence of Pasture having any skills with ranged weapons. Indeed, they'd not seen her train with any of the weapons provided.

Pasture didn't say a word about what she did in that training centre, only that she hoped her ancestors were not further shamed by her failure to score a twelve.

The interview was expected to be an incredibly spectacle to really highlight Pasture's craziness, but to the surprise of many she was rather subdued. She answered Caesar's questions with a calm, stern and almost reserved sort of tone. She wasn't happy, she wasn't furious… she just sounded upset in a professional sort of way.

"What's wrong Pasture?" Caesar asked towards the end of the interview.

"My family's honour has been tarnished by the terrible tomfoolery of the tributes. I aim to reclaim it within the arena," Pasture said, taking a deep breath. "It won't be easy. Tradition mandates a high price on those whose failure to bring peace results in lost honour to the Gallows clan. But, it's a price I am willing to pay no matter how hard if it means my family's honour comes back. I would never be able to wear the title of 'daughter of a shepherd' if I wouldn't."

Caesar wished Pasture all the best with her honour and she left the stage to thunderous applause. The nation found her quirkiness endearing and Caesar was the sort to understand the importance of a family name being upheld. He genuinely wished her the best in reclaiming what honour was missing.

All the same, per his vow and his own little bit of rebellion, he could not only help Pasture. He would do his best to give each tribute a wonderful interview and the next tribute to receive that blessing was Horton.

Truthfully, however, Horton had already gotten a blessing in a roundabout sort of way.

He hadn't thrown the sea cucumber ball and was safe from Pasture's looming rampage. He and a scant few others were spared the worst of the worst.

The rest had no idea what awaited them.

Even Tandarick would've been worried if only he had known what his actions had ensured would befall him…

* * *

When the tributes got their first look at the arena they didn't react much, aside the normal excitement or terror they would feel year after year.

When the nation got their first look at the arena the response was a small sense of relief in several districts and whiny complaints of boredom in the Capitol.

This year the arena was truly nothing special or deadly at a glance. It was just a wide grass field, ten square miles in its overall size. The tributes would be able to see each other from miles away due to the absolute lack of any hiding places aside from the silver cornucopia.

The cornucopia itself gained a mixed reaction from the audience. One weapon only Games always did, especially with how the two prior to this one had been disasters. This year the gamemakers had only supplied metal gauntlets for the tributes to fight with. Some were smooth and featureless, others were golden and had one of two tiny spikes attached.

All of them were built to hurt the person on the receiving end.

The countdown ticked solely towards zero. Slow enough that Pasture had plenty of time to casually take off her thick, heavy leather boots and clutch one in her right hand like it were a lifeline.

Most were puzzled by this action. Some just laughed at this just being another example of the bumpkin being crazy. Her family braced themselves, knowing exactly what was about to happen.

Ancient tradition was very specific about it after all.

The gong rang and the tributes ran into the fray. It was only moments before the annual carnage began. It was exactly as long before it became clear that, as a matter of fact, beating people to death – gauntlets or not – is a _slow_ process.

Several fights broke out with punches and kicks being exchanged. The pair from One didn't bother with the gauntlets at all and simply used their fists, feet and the launch plates to smash the life out of the girls from Eight and Nine. The girl from Two was content to repeatedly bash the little boy from Three into the Cornucopia until his skull was cracked and pouring blood.

Tandarick laughed as he stomped on the terrified face of the girl from Three, grinding his boot right into her for maximum suffering to be achieved. _This_ was what it was all about. _This_ was what he had trained for!

He paused, turning sharply when a shrill cry filled the air. Even with all the fights going by he had to stop and stare at what he was seeing.

Pasture had managed to knock the boys from Five and Six down to the ground and was rapidly pummelling them with the large shoe in her hand. Their howls and cries were quickly becoming quiet, the force of the shoe enough to have quickly induced concussions and make blood leak from their facial orifices.

Tandarick shook away his feelings of bewilderment and ran for Pasture, intending to murder her with his bare hands alone. He was intercepted along the way by the boy from Eight tackling him over, intending to take out the big threat early due to the lack of any real weaponry in the arena.

Tandarick was able to gain the advantage and snap his opponent's neck, but by that point Pasture had finished off the boys she'd been attacking and had ran for the girl from Eleven next. A few well placed shoe smacks to the thin girl's neck were all it took for her to collapse in death and defeat.

"Guys, kill her!" Tandarick roared, leaping up to his feet.

The girl from One tried, truly she did, but her overspecialisation with bolas had left her subpar at hand to hand combat, especially in comparison to Pasture. It was all too easy for Pasture to grab hold of the girl and start beating her down with the heavy, bloodstained shoe.

The remaining outliers had cleared out by now, their forms visible even as they got increasingly far from the cornucopia, but the lack of chaos didn't mean the other careers could simply move in and save their ally.

It was hard to do that when she was being used as a meat shield by Pasture, the shoe smacks not ceasing for a moment as Pasture scooped up a decent backpack over her shoulder and got by the careers.

"We will meet again snake-in-the-grass careers!" Pasture yelled. "The honour of my clan will be restored!"

With one final nasty smack of the shoe upon the girl from One's neck Pasture took off into a sprint, pursuing the distant form of the boy from Four. The girl from One, meanwhile, fell to the ground with her neck now bent at a horrible angle.

Nine cannons fired as the three surviving careers were left to sort through the supplies at the horn of plenty. Only when the last one faded away did they notice a rather concerning fact.

They'd only gotten five kills amongst themselves, a lower than average number. Pasture, meanwhile, had managed four and hadn't needed a real weapon or even a pair of the gauntlets on offer to do so.

She'd only needed a shoe.

"Tandarick, I think this girl is gonna be more of a problem than we thought," the boy from One, Torchwick, noted.

"What was your first clue, Sherlock?" the girl from Two, Yaxlee, grumbled.

"It doesn't matter," Tandarick snorted, sorting through the supplies in search of a bottle of water. "Three of us, one of her. If we can catch up to her we can kill her. We can literally see the outliers right now, we can just go and kill her while she's sleeping tonight. No problem."

Tandarick and his allies may have felt reassured that there was nothing to worry about, but there was one little problem with this conclusion they had arrived at.

It was completely wrong. There _was_ a problem!

For starters, Pasture was able to take quick half hour power naps and get herself back into action, an ability the careers lacked. That was when Tandarick suggested they just let the lunatic tire herself out first.

As with the original plan, there were many holes in this idea…

* * *

Pasture had managed to catch up with the boy from Four before the sun had set. It hadn't been much of a fight at all. One quick scuffle and the bumpkin had the upper hand. From there it was just a matter of how many times it would take the shoe smacking the boy on his head for him to die.

It took two hundred and fifty six smacks.

The cannon fired and Pasture quickly left behind the boy's body behind, save for the meagre supplies she looted from the tiny pack he'd been carrying. She had bigger objectives.

Per tradition she was required to use the shoe of justice to exact righteous vengeance on those that spat upon her family's sacred traditions. It was meant to be hard to accomplish; after all, what's a shoe when put against a knife or a gun?

The lack of any real weapons made Pasture's task a little easier than she thought it was going to be, but she wasn't complaining. She still had many more offenders she had to take on until her honour was restored.

If she failed her family would feel the shame until the end of time.

Pasture walked on under the setting sun for quite a while, gradually making her way towards the girl from Five. She didn't know it, but all eyes of the nation were on her. All watched her muscular build, the sunlight upon her mane of red hair, the way drops of blood slowly dripped off of the shoe in her hand.

She looked like a true warrior.

Shoe sales in the Capitol quintupled in a mere period of two hours.

By the time the anthem was close Pasture had finally caught up to the girl from Five. She-who-cried put up a particularly desperate, scrappy effort but it was all too easy for Pasture to knock her out cold with the shoe and start bringing it down onto the girl's windpipe over and over again.

The cannon boomed right as the shoe connected for the twenty fifth time. What Pasture did not know was that something had changed in the arena from the moment the girl from Five had died.

Something had changed for every single tribute that had died already since the gong first rang.

The forcefield had been shrinking. With ten tributes now dead the size of the arena had gone from ten square miles down to seven square miles.

* * *

Pasture wasn't finding the Games to be a particularly hard experience by any means. The lack of dangerous weapons available to her opponents combined with the particularly simple terrain made for one of the overall easiest hunting trips she had ever been on.

No matter the vicious insults send her way or how some tributes tried to weaponize sharp rocks the end result was the same. She'd close in, easily overpower the tribute until they were on the ground, would recite some strange creed from 'the old country' and conclude by walloping them with her shoe.

There was some debate that started on the fourth day and continued for decades afterwards over if Pasture technically had a thirteenth kill or not. The forcefield had shrunk once again right as she landed the final smack upon the girl from Six. Specifically, it had shrunk half a mile… just enough to make contact with the boy from One and kill him instantly. His allies from Two had reacted with alarm and, upon realising the danger of the forcefield, took off running the other way.

It was officially ruled that Pasture's lack of knowledge of the force field shrinking and how she'd never laid a hand upon Torchwick meant this kill was not hers. It was deemed a gamemaker trap kill. All the same, a certain portion of the audience would forever insist Pasture's final kill count was wrong.

Pasture knew none of this. She wandered along through the arena, drinking deeply from a sponsored bottle of refreshing water and telling the audience a grand folk story.

It was, of course, the story of a beast from the old country known only as 'The Scratchless One'. The audience were on the edge of their seats as Pasture wiped her lips to continue the tale.

"There stood Leland the Unfettered, gazing into the eyes of the Scratchless One as it stared at him, unblinking from its den of poison ivy. Despite the ghastly plants that covered it, the scratchless one did not itch. It did not scratch. Not one bit!" Pasture threw up her arms for effect. "It was pure witchcraft it was!"

Quite without any intent behind it, Pasture had become the clear favourite of the audience by this point – that is, outside of the families of the nine tributes she had hunted down and shoe'd to death so far – with her crazy charm, fearless wit and strong looks. Nobody appeared to look more like a victor than she did.

So strong was she that the audience weren't paying much mind to the Twos as they worked together to tear Horton apart. Despite all the effort and cruelty they put into the kill to make it 'special' and get sponsor eyes back onto themselves they were quickly being left behind. With Tandarick on three kills and Yaxlee on two they were vastly falling behind in comparison to Pasture.

With only about a day of food and water left between them they made their move. The other outliers could wait, Pasture had to die soon. They couldn't simply let her wear herself down first when it was so clear that she was _not_ going to cease her actions.

They set off towards the dot on the horizon that they thought may have been Pasture. The hillbilly, meanwhile, had spared the boy from Nine. He was not among those who had offended her honour after all.

"What about the ones who died before you could get them back?" the boy asked, edging away from Pasture. "Can you reclaim honour if they have died?"

"The rules as written state that, should the reaper collect them as bounty before my shoe can meet their heads, the debt is deemed paid. The grim reaper is worth much the same as a shoe," Pasture replied, cracking her knuckles absently. "But above all else he-who-talks-shit must die by my hand. Only by besting him can the Gallows clan restore their honour."

"…Who are you talking about?" the boy from Nine asked, wary.

"The boy from Two! Do you live in a cave?" Pasture asked. "Oh, I have something special planned for him. A very special tradition _indeed_."

The boy from Nine left not long after that, knowing it was bad for his continued existence to spend too long beside Pasture. Pasture, meanwhile, kept wandering around in search of any of those who had offended her traditions and family. Taking them down in shoe combat was her cross to bare and one she would bare without complaint.

She didn't complain when the anthem that night showed that, after her defeat of the girl from Seven, it was just her, the boy from Nine and the pair from Two left.

She smirked.

* * *

It was only a few minutes after they'd easily slaughtered the boy from Nine when the careers were jumped by Pasture. Literally, that is. She'd been charging at them from a mile away and they at her, only to be taken off guard when she jumped up and bought the shoe down upon Yaxlee's head. While the career girl staggered in a daze Tandarick took the chance to try and throw a hard punch at the hillbilly's throat.

He thought his weighty metal gauntlet would do the job just fine.

He was wrong.

Pasture reacted fast, catching his fist before it could make any contact to her. Tandarick shouted and roared as Pasture tightened her hold on his fist, almost enough for the bones under the gauntlet to start cracking.

"How are you so strong? Fuck, fuck, fuck!" the career screeched, trying to swing his other hand at Pasture's skull.

Pasture caught that punch too and started to force Tandarick backwards, one step at a time.

"I have the strength of a thousand generations behind me! I've worked hard every day of my life! I eat plenty of meat!" Pasture grinned, a fire blazing in her eyes. "I'm-"

"A daughter of a shepherd?" Tandarick scoffed, desperately trying to gain an upper hand.

"No! Are you slow in the upstairs, he-who-cries? I am THE daughter of a shepherd!" Pasture bellowed.

At that moment she finally bought Tandarick to the ground and swiftly knocked him out with several heavy strikes of the shoe. Moments later she tackled Yaxlee down, the career girl helpless against the mighty bumpkin's hold.

"Prepare for a merciless thrashing from my shoe!" Pasture yelled.

Yaxlee shrieked and yelled in furious protest as Pasture smacked the boot onto her face.

"Oh, so you feel all tough like a fine howdy do? Is one shoe not enough?" Pasture smirked, yanking off one of Yaxlee's own shoes. "How about a two shoe beating!?"

With a shoe in both hands Pasture gave Yaxlee one hell of a walloping, but even after a two dozen shoe smacks the career was still alive and semi-concious.

"Is this a test?!" Pasture screeched. She scowled… only to smirk as she took Yaxlee's other shoe off, holding it in her teeth. "Alright then, she-who-scowls, prepare yourself… for the _**ALMIGHTY THREE SHOE BEATING**_!"

Seventy eight smacks later and the cannon boomed, leaving only Pasture and Tanarick in the arena. With Tandarick unconscious it looked like the Games were over and District Ten would get their third victor. How could Pasture possibly lose at this point?

The Capitol were left stumped when Pasture finally set down her bloodsoaked shoe and stepped back from her knocked out foe. Was she showing him mercy? It made no sense to anybody.

"Send me a shovel!" Pasture exclaimed. "Only with a shovel of sorrow may I reclaim the Gallows Clan's lost honour!"

The shovel was sent down right away and the audience watched with baited breath, expecting that Pasture was going to simply smash Tandarick to death with it.

She didn't. She started to dig.

The audience could only watch, utterly stumped, as hour ticked by with Pasture digging a massive pit. Any time Tandarick began to groan and wake up a solid smack from the shoe would send him right back into dreamland all over again.

It took so long that the head gamemaker ended up ordering some reporters to go and ask Pasture's family what the hell this crazy girl was doing. If she was only wasting time then it wasn't too late for a few nasty mutts to be sent in to gnaw off her hands.

When answers were sent back about what the pit was for the head gamemaker told her underlings to let things play out. The end result was going to be more than worth the wait!

* * *

Two days passed until Tandarick was able to wake up and not instantly get smacked by a shoe. He staggered to his feet, dazed and confused with feelings of hunger and thirst making their way through him.

Simply put, he felt like shit.

"Eat!"

Tandarick had food and a bottle of water practically forced into his hands. So desperate was he that he drank and ate all of it before he could even consider if any of it was poisonous.

Then he noticed Pasture looming over him, shoe in hand. Right after that he realised his weapons were all gone.

"Oh shit!"

Tandarick had no chance to jump up and run. Pasture simply grabbed him by his leg and dragged him towards the pit she had dug over the past few days. The pit was, by bow, ten meters deep and ten meters across. As if that wasn't enough a large tree had been sponsored in to serve as a bridge from one side of the pit to the other.

The duel arena was ready!

Tandarick was dragged to the middle of the tree before he was finally released. He scrambled up, having no idea what the hell was going on. He only knew that things were looking pretty damn bad.

"You have offended my honour, my customs, my family and you dared singing the Melody of Mockery! Only by besting you in a duel such as this may my honour be reclaimed," Pasture was red in the face, snarling vengefully. "Choose your weapon!"

Pasture picked up a chest from behind her – also sponsored by the viewers – and opened it for Tandarick to look at. The career boy had hoped for a sword or even some knives, but he was left disappointed.

The only weapons on offer were shoes.

"…More shoes?" Tandarick said, trying not to vomit.

"CHOOSE!" Pasture roared.

Knowing it would be much worse if he did not humour the hillbilly's traditions, Tandarick picked out a fairly large high heel. No sooner had he done so Pasture tossed the chest over the side of the pit and grasped her trusty bloodied boot.

Vicious storm clouds began to move in overhead, the gamemakers having the time of their lives adding to the atmosphere of the duel. It was sure to be an exciting, if perhaps likely to be one sided, finale.

"Shit, shit, shit…" Tandarick muttered. "Pasture, lighten up! It was just a bit of fun, it wasn't anything serious! I'm sorry, ok?"

Pasture regarded Tandarick with doubt, flexing her muscles.

"If that's indeed the truth, do you possess the cupcakes of sorriness for me? Hand them over and we can end this," Pasture said, looking expectant.

A tense silence followed these words.

"Um… no?" Tandarick mumbled, knowing that things were about to get _really_ sucky.

BAM! Pasture struck first with the boot, the first hit alone sending Tandarick reeling. One wallop after another was delivered, all of them staggering the career and making him see numerous stars. He was barely able to put up a fight against the mighty yokel.

Ten watched in sheer awe at what they were seeing, Two watched in complete and utter disgust, the Capitol were cheering and shadow boxing along to the action they were seeing unfold onscreen and Pasture's family could only stand proud and with beaming smiles at the actions of their not-so-little girl.

Their honour was being restored.

Eventually Pasture ceased her assault on Tandarick. Somehow the ghastly brute had been able to bare the shoe beating for over five constant minutes and, in spite of how bruised and bloodied he was, hadn't passed out yet. He swayed to and fro, utterly dazed and dizzy.

Pasture glared at him, placing her hands upon her hips as he looked him right in his eyes. She looked distinctly unimpressed.

"This is a duel boy-who-cries," Pasture said, practically pouting. "In a duel two contestants must fight! Duel, two. Two, duel. It's not hard to understand, or are you that slow in the upstairs department? Why are you not hitting me?"

Tandarick only managed to garble out something that barely counted as human speech, his eyes staring in separate directions and a vacuous groan passing his lips.

"Well?!" Pasture exclaimed, waving her boot at Tandarick threateningly.

"…Is it my turn?" Tandarick slurred.

"HIT ME!" Pasture screeched.

Tandarick weakly tried to strike Pasture in the neck, but the effort was all for naught. With one mighty smack of the boot Pasture struck Tandarick right off of the tree and down into the abyss below. His screams filled the air for several long moments.

A grand total of two seconds before he hit the base of the pit headfirst and broke his neck.

The storm clouds were instantly withdrawn and a sunny sky took their place. The final cannon fired and the trumpets sounded as Pasture was declared as the victor.

Pasture just smiled. Gone was her rage and fury. Instead, she smiled in a way full of pep and genuine friendliness. She held up her bloodied shoe high in the air, ever so proud and triumphant.,

"The honour of my ancestors and family has been avenged once and for all!" Pasture declared, a gleeful grin plastered on her face. It was like she'd become a whole different person. "Thank you."

Pasture casually walked off of the tree, all anger in her heart soothed and forgotten. The hovercraft began to descend to take her home and out of the arena while she stood, basking in the beautiful morning sunlight.

It felt good having redeemed her honour so effectively.

* * *

Many, many miles away in the mentoring room Lammy and Stallion were given a polite applause by several of the other victors. Lammy especially, for Pasture had been the tribute she'd mentored… not that Pasture had needed much help in the end.

The pair of victors welcomed the applause and certainly felt glad that they'd managed to save one of the two children in their care this year. However, there was a bittersweet element to the whole thing.

Not the tragic death of Horton.

Not the steadily failing health of their good friend Mizar.

It was the fact Pasture, the new holder of the kill record, was going to be their neighbour.

"What do we do?" Lammy whispered, her voice almost cracking from anxiety. "What if we offend her customs? What if we get the shoe treatment next?!"

"Already on it," Stallion said, a gentle hand laid upon Lammy's shoulder. "Her family will be moving into the victor village as well, right? I'll just approach them nice and polite, take part in whatever ritual they ask of me and ask for a copy of their traditions. We can read and prepare ourselves."

"Good thinking," Lammy said, trying to calm down. "Anything to avoid a shoe to the face…"

* * *

Pasture returned home victorious and with the honour of her family restored. She'd go down as, perhaps, the most formidable of all victors up to that point and ever since then as well.

This made her a target of the careers in the quell.

Not out of hatred or jealousy of Pasture's power. It was out of _genuine fear_. All of the careers of the quell knew what Pasture was capable of. They saw the way she smashed her shoe against the training dummies. They recalled what she'd done to the twelve tributes she'd taken down years prior.

They knew that, for their own sakes of survival, they had to take her down and all do it at the same time. One on one was only going to end up going badly.

That was why, towards the end of the bloodbath, the four of them cornered her by the cornucopia and moved in for the kill. Pasture showed no fear at all, even laughing at their desperation and remarking that, win or lose, she was content. If she won she won and if she lost she'd be taking her place at the table of shepherds with her ancestors.

Pasture died when Brutus managed to stab her right in the chest, though not before she had smashed him ever so hard on his shoulder with the spiky cleat she'd been wielding. It had been a hard enough blow to spike through his clothing and right into his skin.

Brutus insisted the blood was only barely tingling and nothing to worry about… oh how very wrong the career tribute was.

He was practically family to the victors from Two, but he knew very little about the victor friendships from other districts. He had never known that Pasture and Laurel had been close friends ever since the horrible nightmare that was the Sixty Eighth Games where both lost family in the arena. He had not known both had been given select details about the rebellion, even if not the whole picture.

He did not know Laurel had slipped some of her famous poison brew to Pasture and that Pasture had coated the cleat in it while hiding at the back of the cornucopia.

He only realised something was very wrong when, on the third day of the Quell, his strength began to fail him and a sickness spread from his head to his feet. A sickness that gave a certain Peeta Mellark the ability to overpower him in combat and, after a struggle, break his neck.

In that final moment before the inevitable crack Brutus thought he saw the ghost of Pasture looking down at him with a cheeky grin.

The ghost smacked a shoe to her palm and let out a loud 'YEE-HAW!'.

* * *

"Rest in peace you crazy old country girl," Katniss said, managing to faintly smile.

"Keep on smacking people with those shoes in the beyond… or, you know, try not to," Peeta added, awkwardly smiling as well.

After a moment of silence the couple kept walking down the street. A few moments passed by before they arrived at the sixtieth face imprinted into the ground. The sight of the face had both Katniss and Peeta looking forlorn.

"I still can't get that moment out of my head. You know, when she was practically torn away from her children," Katniss said, looking upset.

"It was a terrible time," Peeta said, looking down at his feet. "At least that part of history is behind us. It'll never happen again."

"I sure hope you're right," Katniss replied.

The face imprinted into the ground was one of several whom they could never forget. The person looking back at them had wavy, almost glossy hair that went down smoothly past her shoulders. She had a motherly sort of expression, especially in her eyes, and seemed to be of a slightly skinny build.

It was Cecelia.

* * *

Hope you guys enjoyed that! I'll be real, the first mention of Pasture back in Hot Water was only ever intended as a one off gag, so I didn't factor in at the time just how ridiculous the idea of a person winning by using a shoe as a weapon would be. But now, having had to work out details like the bare arena, the metal gauntlets and the shrinking forcefield, I'm glad for making the joke as I think it made for an interesting set-up and a fairly enjoyable protagonist (well, for a given definition of the word 'protagonist'). I certainly liked writing Pasture's wacky mannerisms that only made sense to herself and the understandably baffled reactions of those around her. I think she ended up as a tad more than a 'female version of Rolf' and might be one of the overall best victors, but do you guys agree? Feel free to let me know in a review if so inclined. Almost done with this decade, just one more to go… so now the question must be asked, what sort of story does a motherly person like Cecelia have? Oh, she has one alright, one that's simply flaming with drama and practically burning with desire to be told…

* * *

 **Stats**

 **District 1:** Peridot Gaudy (8th Games), Crystal McCree (14th Games), Bronze Marley (19th Games), Crown Martins (24th Games), Dollar Dettwieller (32nd Games), Mascara Court (41st Games), Platinum Twist (44th Games)

 **District 2:** Baron Overwhill (4th Games), Runa Peace (7th Games), Olga Machete (10th Games), Rook Valiant (17th Games), Boulder Atherston (20th Games), Vercingetorix Carnby (25th Games), Dragon Batofel (27th Games), Rhyder Overwhill (39th Games), Mercy Gregor (46th Games), Brutus Gunn (49th Games), Lyme Rabe (51st Games)

 **District 3:** Honorius Perthshire (5th Games), Pi Orbit (22nd Games), Beetee Latier (37th Games), Wiress Plummer (47th Games), Yohan Fairbane (58th Games)

 **District 4:** Museida Selkirk (3rd Games), Mags Flanagan (11th Games), Tide Luther (23rd Games), Librae Ogilvy (35th Games), Anchor Paddock (52nd Games)

 **District 5:** Shunt Gaspar (12th Games), Isobel Sparks (18th Games), Crimson Flanders (29th Games), Porter Tripp (38th Games), Neon Erg (48th Games), Wattzon Holmes (55th Games), Arendellian Spinner III (57th Games)

 **District 6:** Chassis Macalister (31st Games), Bentley Corduroy (54th Games), Porsche London (56th Games)

 **District 7:** Pliny Aransio (2nd Games), Fir Buzz (9th Games), Jack Tylos (21st Games), Snag Nakamura (34th Games), Blight Jordan (53rd Games)

 **District 8:** Woof Casino (16th Games), Paige Murphy (30th Games), Spool Nylon (42nd Games)

 **District 9:** Mizar Aldjoy (1st Games), Gwenith Rosebud (13th Games), Teff Withers (28th Games), Laurel Flamsteel (36th Games), Tabbock Summers (43rd Games), Trevy Vex (Escaped 55th Games)

 **District 10:** Stallion March (26th Games), Lammy Phyronix (40th Games), Pasture Gallows (59th Games)

 **District 11:** Bear Redfoot (15th Games), Seeder Howell (33rd Games), Chaff Mitchell (45th Games)

 **District 12:** Duke Saint-Rose (6th Games), Haymitch Abernathy (50th Games)


	61. Cecelia Mog

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Hunger Games. They belong to Suzanne Collins.

 **Note:** Cecelia, another canon and our starring women to close out the sixth decade of the Games. Little is known about her, save the fact she had a family and how even Effie – by that point still not a rebel by any means – felt genuinely bad for her being reaped. So, per the norm it's a case of another character I feel was underutilised and of canon giving me plenty to work with and making a chapter out of. Enjoy!

* * *

"You know what makes me feel awful when I look at her face?" Katniss began. "Even now I have no idea if her children are still alive."

"I sure hope they are. They couldn't have even been reaping age," Peeta tensed up for a moment, shaking a little. "The Hunger Games ended and we're not at war anymore, real or not real?"

"Real. We won, Peeta. We survived," Katniss gently took Peeta in for a hug. "…Sadly, Cecelia didn't. She seemed really nice."

"She did. You know, I never saw a rerun of her Games, but… I have this vague memory of them. Well, it might be them?" Peeta paused, thoughtful. "I recall a swamp and fire… lots and lots of fire. Was that her Games? What's fire got to do with a motherly women like Cecelia?"

"I can't say I know," Katniss replied. "But you must be right, they were her Games."

"How so?" Peeta asked.

"Because I have the same vague memory," Katniss said.

The pair went silent, paying their respects to the last victor of District Eight.

* * *

 **60** **th** **Annual Hunger Games**

 **Name:** Cecelia Mog

 **Gender:** Female

 **District:** 8

 **Age:** 18

 **Kills:** 8

* * *

 _[Extract from the journal of Twylia Knuff, one of the orphans from the care home Cecelia grew up in.]_

The reaping happened and I survived another year. Just three more reapings to go and… I don't know, exactly, but at least I won't have to go into the arena.

Everybody's been quiet since we got back to the care home. Even the adults aren't saying much of anything. Everybody's just sitting around, all lifeless and sad. Nobody's even started to pick at their bread and normally everybody does that. Reaping day is the only time we ever get fresh bread no matter what.

I guess it makes sense why everybody is so upset. They picked Cecelia to go into the Games.

I think I might be the only one who didn't cry. Maybe I just don't have any tears left in me anymore. Maybe it's for the best. Without Cecelia here who would dry them away? She's practically a parent to the rest of us. If we get hurt or scared she's always the first one there. The adults all rely on her to keep the peace even though she's technically a kid like us. For the first time since I can remember there was no story telling tonight.

The adults weren't going to do it. They never cared to do what they could just leave to Cecelia. Things like being there for us, escorting us to and from school, taking any hits that would've gone to us, making sure we had somewhere close to enough to eat… she's only three years older than I am, but she's exactly what I think a mom is like.

The worst part was saying goodbye to her. Cecelia didn't cry. She didn't even sniffle. She was smiling when we went to visit her in the judgement building and she was still smiling even when they loaded her onto the train. I wonder if she was still smiling after that… did she cry? I would've cried if it was me who got reaped. Only one girl from Eight ever made it home from the Hunger Games and that was thirty years ago.

I can't forget the last thing she said to us, after she spent most of the visiting hour trying to calm us all down. She told us to always keep on loving each other and as many other people as we could. She told us what she always told us from the start… how there's nothing better in this world than love.

I think I need to cry now, I'll stop here. I hope she'll be alright. I don't want to imagine how terrible things will be without mama Cecelia.

* * *

 _[Page 1 of Mizar Aldjoy's final letter]_

Dear Gwenith, my closest friend.

One week. That's how long they gave me to hang on in there until cancer takes me away. Maybe less, maybe more. All I know is that, with what time I have left, I need to get everything written down before my knowledge dies with me. I think that's what they're planning, actually. I know for a fact Boulder once had traces of cancer developing and they cured it in a day or two. No such luck for the first victor, the one they know has always opposed them.

That's alright. I've made my peace with it. Honestly, I'm ready to see my parents again and all those other children who died in that meadow. Maybe Sophie will remember me. Maybe Kai might forgive me. Maybe Petra won't feel too hurt it was me that lived and not her.

That's just a lot of maybes. I need to focus on the facts. As I write this it's been a month since Cecelia joined the line-up of victors, and the career districts are getting restless. I think Olga and Bronze might actually start killing people if their desperation for more victors doesn't get fixed. Is it our fault that Two has had a plague going on or that One's training academy never focuses on survival skills and helping their tributes recognise their own flaws? No, but we'll surely be paying the price for it in the next decade. Please, all of you do whatever you can for the tributes from our home.

If all goes well then we won't need to be mentors for much longer. Maybe a few decades? Thirteen thinks they'll be ready to start the next rebellion by the time of the Eighty Fifth Games. They just need a person, a victor perhaps, who can 'spark' the rebellion. For the love of all that is good in this world, what little there is, find this spark.

* * *

 _[Extract from the journal of Button Pridham, one of the orphans from the care home Cecelia grew up in.]_

Cecelia is going to win! You hear me journal? You hear me Panem? Cecelia is gonna win and come home, then we'll all be happy and it'll be a total party! She's going awesomely and she's only gonna get even more incredibly super awesome, just watch it happen!

Cecelia said she was gonna make it back home and for us to keep loving each other. Well, I did what she said and she's keeping her promise too, uh huh! At the tribute parade they dressed her up like some kind of sock queen and she even had a sceptre. She looked so cool! All of us were cheering when she waved that thing around and got Caesar's attention on herself. The adults think she didn't do so well, but they're just stupid. Mama Cecelia was the star!

I just wish she hadn't looked right at the camera and made a 'royal decree' for us to be in bed by ten and to brush our teeth. That was totally lame!

It's okay though, because mama Cecelia is still the bestest girl the care home has ever had, literally ever! We didn't see what she did in training – we even asked really nicely but the adults said such things don't get shown and that we had to shut up. Lamers! – but the scores came out a few days ago. She scored a nine! You should have seen it, we were all cheering and Caesar looked so impressed, yeah!

I can't wait for the Games to start. The sooner they start the sooner Cecelia will come home. Maybe… maybe she'll get back faster than that boy from Six did. Chassis? He was fast, but Cecelia is soooooo much faster! She even said so in her interview. She said she's the fastest runner in Eight and she has to be to keep up with all of us orphans… especially me. Heehee, guilty!

I can't sleep. How can I? I keep thinking about what Cecelia said in her interview. How much she misses all of us, how she'd have volunteered for any of the girls among us, how she'll let all of us stay in her fancy home in the victor village once she wins… she's so awesome! Mama Cecelia is the bestest tribute, and victor, ever!

But, there's one little thing I don't get. Cecelia was twitching a bit during her interview and muttering a little. She never does that when she's in the care home. What's got her doing that?

…I guess she just really misses us! Good thing she'll be home soon!

* * *

 _[Page 2 of Mizar Aldjoy's final letter]_

Thirteen has been stockpiling weapons, they claim so at least. Hovercrafts, bombs, hacking devices, all kinds of guns… things worse than anything a victor has used in the arena. Enough to gear up an army, which is just as well as that's kind of the whole point. A war will be coming, and you'll need to be ready, both to keep yourself safe once it begins and to start picking up the pieces once it's over.

The districts are the key. You'll need all of them on your side to be able to beat the Capitol. Not some of them, not most of them, _**all of them**_. That includes One and Two. I'll confess, I'm not sure how to swing them both over to our side, but perhaps appealing to their less patriotic victors would be a good starting point. Same case for highlighting how they've not won in quite a stretch of time, even with the career academies the 'generous Capitol' gives them. I'll highlight who you should speak to later in my letter.

Within the Capitol you'll find rebel members at MV. Crown and Harp have catered to them for years now and have a whole backlog of rebellious plans hidden in a secret room under the crawl space beneath the basement. Password to see the backlog is 'Ayug Batzu'… I don't know what it means either, but maybe the point is that it means nothing? Network there and see if you can disrupt the Capitol from within. Even the odd traffic jam or public nuisance here and there would be useful. Anything to distract and delay them in their next cruel tactics.

* * *

 _[Extract from the journal of Catrice Walsh, one of the orphans from the care home Cecelia grew up in.]_

I can't sleep. How could I possibly sleep after being forced to watch the cornucopia bloodbath? I can't get those horrible screams out of my head. I just can't.

Normally Cecelia would be here to calm us down and help us settle down when we're scared, but… we'll have to do it on our own now until she comes back. If she comes back… now that nine tributes are dead it's really hitting me that Cecelia might not make it home.

Mama Cecelia might die.

She didn't leave the bloodbath unscathed either. The boy from Six tried to take all the food and water she'd managed to grab. He took some of it _and_ a punch right to his throat, but Cecelia took a knife to her hip. We were all screaming and crying, maybe even louder than Cecelia was. But mama Cecelia is made of tough stuff. She didn't cry, she just ran for her life off into the arena.

It's a swamp this year. The whole place looks like a dead rat's corpse down in the sewer that got turned into an arena – it's gross! Mud and swamp water that looks like vomit, gnarled trees, really thick and greasy mushes, sweltering sunshine in the day and really cold nights… I sure hope Cecelia will be alright. I think Caesar said something about infection being a real risk this year.

We're supposed to be asleep, but most of us are still awake. If we don't watch over Cecelia then who will? She's managed to find a hollowed out burrow under a tree. It hurts, watching her shivering in the cold with a hand pressed over her stab wound. She forces a smile, maybe for our sake, but it's so oblivious that she's in terrible pain.

The worst part, as I sit here watching and writing, is how they keep showing highlights of the bloodbath. It's not just Cecelia being stabbed that we're forced to watch. Nasty as it is, it seems mama Cecelia got off easy compared to some of the others. The boy who they reaped to go with her, Bobbin, had his head chopped off. Three among us vomited when that happened.

I feel sick just thinking about it. I wish she was back here to give me a hug. I need Cecelia more than ever. We can't do this without her! We can't face Panem without Cecelia! What if she ends up with her throat slit like the little girl from Five? What if she ends up like the boy from Six, neck snapped by the boy from One after Cecelia was done with him? What if she's held under the nasty swamp water and drowned like the boy from Twelve?

I shouldn't think about such things. It'll only give me worse nightmares and leave me too tired to do anything tomorrow. I need to be strong for Cecelia. She's clearly able to stay strong. She just got up and has started to wander through the dark swamp. Where could she be going?

Containing an hour later. I'm confused… Cecelia is acting strangely; is this because she's so scared? I've heard fear does weird things to people… but why Cecelia? She's so strong, she always has been! So, how come she's wandering around in a trance and making weird… balls, I think? She keeps using twigs, dry leaves and some kind of sap to make lots of balls, placing them around mindlessly.

What's happening to mama Cecelia? Why do the adults keep whispering and grimacing? What aren't they telling us?

* * *

 _[Page 3 of Mizar Aldjoy's final letter]_

We have had sixty victors since the Dark Days. Some have departed, but that still leaves dozens, some more able – or even willing – to help the cause than others. I'll highlight who is worth your precious time, or not, in each district. Don't worry about Thirteen just yet, the backlog will tell you all about that.

In One you can trust Crown with your life. He hates the Capitol and especially hates Bronze; he's our ride or die. Platinum isn't an active rebel, but she'd help keep you safe if asked. You can normally find her at MV between 12AM and 2AM. Peridot isn't exactly Pro-Games by any means, but she is pro-One and won't do anything if it might harm One. I'd suggest leaving her out of this _unless_ the rebellion is clearly winning. Bronze is self-explanatory, don't go near him. Indeed, if you can manage it… see if you can find a way for Crown and Crimson to take him out. Cruel maybe, but so is the fact he started the victor prostitution ring. As for Dollar, she only cares for keeping zombies out of Panem. She won't be of any help.

In Two it goes without saying that Olga is our enemy here. She's doubting the Capitol a little more now, but she'd hand us over the second she knew something was up. Likewise, don't let Boulder, Dragon or Brutus know anything. Baron and Runa can be told anything and can keep a secret, but they feel too old to be able to really rebel anymore. Rhyder says he'll do anything his parents can't. Mercy will fight to protect children… basically, consider her on your side. Lyme is also trustworthy; she wants Olga's academy is burn. The real issue is the people of Two; over 90% are pro-Games and pro-Capitol.

In Three the only one to watch is Yohan. He's stopped caring about anything and reacts to company with hostility and anger. Best to leave him alone. Honorius has been with us for years and that still holds true now. Beetee and Wiress are similarly rock solid allies. Beetee is an expert at anything with hacking, we need him alive to win.

In Four you can forget about Anchor. He loves the Capitol with all his heart. Tide can't be trusted either, she's loyal only to money and gambling. Librae is sympathetic, but she says she's got some 'personal mission' next year. One she doesn't know if she will survive. If whatever that is turns out alright, recruit her. Mags is willing to fight for us to her last breathe. Museida is the same, but sadly he can't do so much after he went blind two years back. Take good care of him, alright?

In Five Neon is right out. He can't stand being near girls and he's always either drunk or high. He won't be any use. As much as I like her, Aredellian isn't mentally stable enough to be trusted with any rebellious plans or information. Wattzon hates Snow and his regime, but he has friend sin the Capitol who are by no means rebels. Best not to give him vital info. Porter is up for anything, no matter how dangerous, and Crimson… like I said, victor prostitution was started by Bronze and aided by Snow. She's suffered the worst of all of us. She's a major ally.

In Six I'd be hesitant to call any of the trio rebellious leaders. Chassis has never been able to be serious enough, Bentley's often high and dealing with depression and Porsche… well, you know how she is. Drugged up, withdrawn and sometimes streaking. I'm sympathetic, but I'd suggest for now leaving them out. If they can recover from their drug addictions then discard what I said and bring them in.

* * *

 _[Extract from the journal of Byran Shwartz, one of the orphans from the care home Cecelia grew up in.]_

I've known Cecelia all my life. Sometimes I can remember flickers of a time long ago, when I was just three years old and she was six. She'd always give me an extra slice of bread that, really, should have been hers. She was always so kind and selfless.

Now I'm fifteen and she's eighteen… and she's not acting anything like I've seen in all the time I've known her. I can't say I've never forgotten things, but… I think I'd remember her acting like this. She's twitching, she keeps muttering under her breath too quiet for the cameras to understand and she's still setting down those 'balls'.

Are they traps? Even Caesar and Claudius don't seem to know. They think the stress of the arena and being away from her loved ones is causing her to fall into insanity. I'm starting to think they might be right.

It's the sixth day in the swampland arena as I write this, seated in the canteen at school with the Games playing on a TV the Capitol bought in for us. We don't get any food if we don't watch the Games. She's wandering along to where the sun is shining brightest. I'm no expert, but it probably smells awful. Flies buzz throughout the air and some parts of the grass lightly smoke under the heat.

Cecelia doesn't pay it any mind. She doesn't seem to know what's going on as she staggers through the sweltering field, sipping from one of her last few bottles of water. I hope it lasts her to the end. It's her against nine other tributes, some of them small but most of them big. It was eleven, but the careers found the pair from Seven last night.

…The bell for class rang half an hour ago, but nobody moved to leave the canteen. The teachers didn't either. How could any of us move when we just saw Cecelia make her move? Even as I write this down I still have no idea what just happened.

There's fire everywhere! One moment Cecelia was watching the sunny, scorching sky and holding up a hand to feel the wind. The next moment she used a lighter she found at the cornucopia to ignite a patch of dried grass.

It wasn't long after that when the whole field started to set ablaze bit by bit. Cecelia didn't panic or even cry. She laughed. She laughed and laughed and laughed. It was so unlike the motherly figure we've all known for so long.

Then she used a pair of branches wrapped in reeds to spread the fire into the overgrowth of the swamp. She stopped laughing and began to cackle like a maniac. I wasn't the only one wondering if a mutt hadn't somehow replaced Cecelia when we weren't looking.

Ever since mama Cecelia went bonkers the entire swamp has become a land of fire. The flames keep spreading between the trees and thick grass faster than I knew fire could move. Caesar claimed that by midnight over seventy percent of the arena is going to be ablaze! Those balls Cecelia kept laying down, they were fire bombs. They keep spreading the fire faster than it already was.

How did Cecelia know how to make them? How did she start off this inferno like it was nothing? Was I just too childish to see something obvious?

Maybe I'll just ask her when she gets home. Four tributes, including a career, have already been lost in the flames. Just four left… it's horrible, but if it brings Cecelia home… it'll all be ok, won't it?

* * *

 _[Page 4 of Mizar Aldjoy's final letter]_

In Seven you can always count on Pliny. She's underestimated a lot and often overhears valuable info. I've known her practically all my life, she's with us. Fir isn't very serious most of the time, aside where it counts. Her big heart. Trust her with your life. Jack's criminal habits make me hesitate to trust him, but he's got some good contacts in the criminal underground we could make use of… tread carefully and negotiate well. Snag's all about his family, but anything you have that could aid his wife and daughters would surely get him ready to get in the thick of things. Blight's professed to me multiple times he's fine to die if it means bringing Snow down, so consider him solid too.

In eight Woof… I don't know. He doesn't talk much and what he did is still hard to forget, but I think he wants to try and make up for it. It's your call. Paige is with us to the ends of the Earth. Tag's loyal to us as well and he's a force to unite Eight and Ten – tell him I said he should ask Lammy to marry him sometime soon – but… it may just be me, but I swear he's hiding something. I doubt it's anything bad, but just watch him. Cecelia, it's too early to tell how much we can trust her and what she can be trusted with, exactly, but she's not dangerous.

You know Nine just as well as I do, so I'll keep it brief. Teff's a-given and Laurel… she was always like a daughter to me. They're both precious to our cause. DO NOT TRUST TABBOCK.

In Ten Stallion can be trusted, but just be aware he still has issues with germs. It might limit what he can do in the long term. Lammy is always with us and will be vital in bringing Ten and Eight together with haste. Pasture, I have no clue at all. I'm leaving that one to you. How much would you trust a hillbilly who fights with a shoe with a rebellion?

In Eleven… I'm so proud of the man Bear has become. He'll guard you with his life. I think you know how much he cares for you, and you know what? I think you care for him as well. All the best for you both. Seeder and Chaff, like others, are willing to die if it means ensuring Snow is killed. Just be aware that Chaff should not be involved in rebel talks while he is drunk, just as a precaution.

As for Twelve, Haymitch came to me during the previous Games and said that, when I'm gone, he's willing to bare the weight of the rebellion on his shoulders and lead the charge. Obviously he's to be counted on. I told him his offer was appreciated and that in most cases I'd have considered it.

I had to decline and say he's one of the most vital heads of our cause. Why? Well Gwenith… I want you to be the leader of the Second Rebellion. Not Plutarch, not Coin, I want it to _you_. A golden hearted woman able to lead from the shadows and not be tempted nor distracted by power and revenge.

* * *

 _[Extract from the journal of Kelsi Zun, one of the orphans from the care home Cecelia grew up in.]_

I don't know what's going on anymore. What's happened to mama Cecelia? She's gone crazy! She keeps running amok through the burning swamp, laughing and whooping like some kind of clown. That's not the girl whose been like a mother to me… is she? I still love her, all of us do without question, but why is she acting this way?

Maybe the Capitol did something to her before the Games started? Yeah, that would make sense. Maybe she told them off for how they kept cutting off our rations in Eight and wouldn't stop whipping people for no reason. Cecelia sure told 'em I bet!

But still, I don't like what I'm seeing here. Two more tributes were burnt to death in the fire. It's down to Cecelia, the boy from One and the girl from Six. I don't think the latter two are going to last much longer. The boy from One is burnt all over and missing all his hair, while the mechanic girl is trapped by the fire on all sides. I don't think I can watch what'll surely happen to her now.

I had to stop for a bit to throw up. The girl from Six is dead, she stabbed herself before the fire could close in on her. Now it's just Cecelia and the last career. He's stumbling through the burning marshes, trying to stay ahead of the fire and find Cecelia. Everybody's cheering for Cecelia, urging her to stay out of the boy's way.

He spots her at the top of a cliff. It's amazing how strong that boy is, managing to haul his burning body to the top of the cliff while Cecelia dances around under the falling ash and embers, laughing and whooping. Does she not even see the boy?!

She did. She sent a kick right into his face as soon as he started to pull himself up. I didn't watch as he fell down into the fire. I only watched Cecelia continued her crazy dancing. She's got some serious rhythm.

Not just that, but she's coming home!

Everybody in the care home and all across the district is cheering, screaming in delight. It's making my ears throb a bit and making it hard to hold this pencil, but I can't help giggling and smiling as well. Mama Cecelia is coming home, safe and sound. I just knew she could do it!

It takes a while for the hovercraft to collect her. She's still laughing and dancing around like a maniac… maybe she's just happy to be going home.

The cameras show a final shot of the arena, by now almost entirely on fire. It's like looking into hell itself. Most of us are just glad Cecelia is out of there, but the adults seem a little wary. I hear one of them wondering if Cecelia might be dangerous. They use some word I don't recognise.

What's a pyromaniac? I sure hope it's not as bad as those Peacekeeper Pirates the adults have been talking about. One of them said even the local peacekeepers are getting worried for their friends in Four. If Cecelia was here then she could protect us from them, I just know it!

* * *

 _[Page 5 of Mizar Aldjoy's final letter]_

There are a great many things I want to say to you, Gwenith. But, time is running short and it's getting hard to keep holding the pen I'm writing with. Already the letter thus far has taken over two hours. But, I'll do my best to get the important stuff written down.

I know you might not see yourself as a leader, let alone one of the rebellion. I remember all those years ago when Teff won the Games you felt flustered at being the leader & chaperone of her hover ball team. The thing is, that's the point. You don't desire power nor status of any sort. That makes you the perfect person to lead the rebellion, and lead it from the shadows. Let people like Plutarch and Coin work out the battles and the 'big picture' sorts of things. You focus on keeping people alive, providing comfort and care to the distressed and wounded. You plan out how we can rebuild after the war and how the new order can be fair and prosperous for everybody. I know you can do it.

I remember when I first met you. You were so scared, so miserable, you doubted yourself at every turn and you even called yourself a monster because of that little thing on your face. I say bollocks to that. You've grown so much, Gwenith. You don't let that little birthmark mean anything to you anymore. You care for people and show so much genuine humanity every day like it's nothing. You stopped being shy long ago and you've become strong. Then again, I think you always were.

You're strong enough to cover for me while I'm gone on my 'extended trip' away from this world.

* * *

 _[Extract from the journal of Cecelia Mog, written during her first night back in District Eight.]_

I'm so very tired, but so very glad that it's finally over.

Coming home was everything that I'd hoped it would be, and more besides. All the orphans practically jumped me the moment I stepped off of the train. After all the punches, scratches, bites and burns from the arena… it was exactly what I needed. Having them all with me for a group hug, it's moments like that which make life worth living.

I think things are going to be alright from now on. The Games are over, all of us have a big house to live in and we're never going to go hungry ever again. What could be better? Well, maybe if they hadn't seen my 'dark side', but none of them have said anything much about it. Only Button did and he just said he thought I was super cool. What a dear.

It's raining pretty hard outside as I write this at the kitchen table, the clock showing it's almost 3AM. After all the fire I think a bit of rain is a welcome relief. Apparently the gamemakers are still putting out the fires I set off – apparently they need them gone to make the arena safe for Capitol citizens to be able to visit on tours – and they won't be done with that for at least a few more days. Sorry for not being sorry, I have nothing but contempt for those terrible men and women. They were the ones who set off so many horrible traps on us.

But, am I better? The orphans certainly think I am – I'm still their 'mama Cecelia' even now – but was I not the tribute this year with the most kills overall? Eight kills, all of them lost in the fire I created. The last one, Bazaar, died solely because I kicked him down into the flames. I can claim self-defence all I want, but it'll be a long time before I can forgive myself for that.

When I'm around these people I love, doing everything I can for them to be safe and happy, it's easy to keep myself in control. Love and family bonding was always the best outlet I could have ever wished for. They're all good people and it's my good fortune to have met them. They may not have known it, and for now at least they still don't know it, but they're what keep my dark side from being unleashed onto the world around me.

I can't deny the obvious, I'm a pyromaniac. I don't know what it is about fire, I just need to cause it. I need to feel the rush of adrenaline when I see the flames burning everything to smouldering ash. I need to see the falling embers, the thick smoke, the crackling of the inferno… without the orphans to keep me distracted, I turn into that maniac in the arena. I tried to fight it, but the stress and the stab wound… it let my dark side out.

I can't remember much of what happened while I was going crazy and letting fires. I was pretty much on auto-pilot, but the recap footage told me enough. I was dangerous and I can't let that happen again. If I set a fire around the orphans… no, I don't want to begin thinking about that.

Tag said he'd have his gang of entrepreneurs see if they can find some way to help quell the urges within me. Just in case anything sets off within me during the tour or during future Games. Paige and even Woof said they'd try to help. Looks like, in spite of what happened, my family is growing. I'm glad.

I'll have to end things off here, Button just woke up and it sounds like he's had a nightmare. No doubt from seeing people burn in that terrible, glorious inferno I caused. Well, duty calls… and it's a duty I love more than anything in the world.

There's no greater thing in this world than love.

\- Cecelia Mog

* * *

 _[Page 6 of Mizar Aldjoy's final letter. Tears mark the page, likely from Gwenith when she first read the letter.]_

I know right now you must be thinking that you can't do this, that I might be wrong in letting you take the place in the rebellion that I once held. No, not possible. I may have made mistakes in life, but I was never wrong. I don't think I'm about to start being wrong now either. You've got this Gwenith. You'll be able to set the pieces in order just fine until we finally have that 'spark' we need.

Remember that day we first properly met, that painful night aboard the train towards the Capitol? You made that whole day special just by being yourself. Remember the day I threw you a surprise birthday party when you turned sixteen? You made that day special too simply by being yourself. The day you comforted Maizie when she was sobbing, forced to watch Teff going crazy down in that dark sea cave? You made that day special for the same reasons. I could go on and on, but I don't have enough time left to cover the thousands of days you've made special. I guess my point is that I believe in you and I'm proud of you.

Take care of Teff and Laurel. Take care of yourself. Take care of this country. In spite of everything I still believe, deep down, humans really aren't bad. Not even the Capitol citizens… well, not most of them. Just misguided. I know you'll do the right thing.

It's been wonderful, meeting you when you were young and watching you grow into who you are today. It was wonderful, having a friend like you and seeing how you were able to share that friendship with others in Nine and forgive people for how they reacted to you, just for how you looked. Isn't it truly a wonderful thing, having been lifelong friends with each other?

Truthfully, perhaps Maizie wasn't my only sister after all.

It's almost impossible to hold the pen now. I feel like the reaper is patiently waiting for me to finish this one up before he comes to gently guide me away. I wouldn't want to keep such a busy man waiting, would I? Heheh.

Thanks for helping me live my life. Now, you go and live your own. I did the best I could for us rebels and I believe you can help the rest finish the job, once and for all.

Your friend now and forever

Mizar Aldjoy

* * *

"Rest in peace Cecelia," Peeta said as the silence ended.

The couple resumed their walk down the long street until they came to the sixty first face upon the ground. The face of a strong looking young man gazed back at them. His freckle covered face was fairly firm and slightly rugged, his hair appeared well groomed and spiky while his eyes were rather wide.

Disgust was all that could be seen in Katniss and Peeta's expressions.

"Logger," Peeta muttered, trying not to sound too repulsed.

"District traitor. Scumbag all the way," Katniss continued, cold as ice.

* * *

There we are, six decades finished and Cecelia's story has been told! I liked working with the kind and motherly side of her that canon stated her to have, it made her come off as a really tender sort of hero of this chapter's Games. Of course, making her sweet and motherly alone… eh, almost a little plain? I figured that adding in some good old fashioned pyromania would spice things up a bit, and you know what, I think it did! It was a fun format, seeing the orphans write about the girl they see as a mother and how she gradually gives into her urges. Though, perhaps Cecelia was a little overshadowed by the other half of the plot of this chapter? Whether she was or wasn't she'll be appearing every now and then in the remainder of the story, so keep your eyes out for her. As for the elephant in the room, yep, our first victor has passed on… but he didn't go down crying and broken, he used his position to be the best person possible and to help those in need. I'd say Mizar accomplished a lot of good over the years, and now it's up to Gwenith to keep the momentum going as we enter the countdown to the second rebellion and catching the past up with where things are in the present. Mizar's gone, but surely not to be forgotten. Stay tuned for more guys, because boy oh boy… the next victor is gonna be something indeed…

* * *

 **Stats**

 **District 1:** Peridot Gaudy (8th Games), Crystal McCree (14th Games), Bronze Marley (19th Games), Crown Martins (24th Games), Dollar Dettwieller (32nd Games), Mascara Court (41st Games), Platinum Twist (44th Games)

 **District 2:** Baron Overwhill (4th Games), Runa Peace (7th Games), Olga Machete (10th Games), Rook Valiant (17th Games), Boulder Atherston (20th Games), Vercingetorix Carnby (25th Games), Dragon Batofel (27th Games), Rhyder Overwhill (39th Games), Mercy Gregor (46th Games), Brutus Gunn (49th Games), Lyme Rabe (51st Games)

 **District 3:** Honorius Perthshire (5th Games), Pi Orbit (22nd Games), Beetee Latier (37th Games), Wiress Plummer (47th Games), Yohan Fairbane (58th Games)

 **District 4:** Museida Selkirk (3rd Games), Mags Flanagan (11th Games), Tide Luther (23rd Games), Librae Ogilvy (35th Games), Anchor Paddock (52nd Games)

 **District 5:** Shunt Gaspar (12th Games), Isobel Sparks (18th Games), Crimson Flanders (29th Games), Porter Tripp (38th Games), Neon Erg (48th Games), Wattzon Holmes (55th Games), Arendellian Spinner III (57th Games)

 **District 6:** Chassis Macalister (31st Games), Bentley Corduroy (54th Games), Porsche London (56th Games)

 **District 7:** Pliny Aransio (2nd Games), Fir Buzz (9th Games), Jack Tylos (21st Games), Snag Nakamura (34th Games), Blight Jordan (53rd Games)

 **District 8:** Woof Casino (16th Games), Paige Murphy (30th Games), Spool Nylon (42nd Games), Cecelia Mog (60th Games)

 **District 9:** Mizar Aldjoy (1st Games), Gwenith Rosebud (13th Games), Teff Withers (28th Games), Laurel Flamsteel (36th Games), Tabbock Summers (43rd Games), Trevy Vex (Escaped 55th Games)

 **District 10:** Stallion March (26th Games), Lammy Phyronix (40th Games), Pasture Gallows (59th Games)

 **District 11:** Bear Redfoot (15th Games), Seeder Howell (33rd Games), Chaff Mitchell (45th Games)

 **District 12:** Duke Saint-Rose (6th Games), Haymitch Abernathy (50th Games)


	62. Logger Barlow

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Hunger Games. They belong to Suzanne Collins.

 **Note:** Time for another decade to begin! A decade full of careers and canons, the former fact certainly a good thing to make up for the general lack of them in the decade just gone, but as it happens this chapter's victor is neither canon nor career. He's something wholly different and not exactly viewed kindly upon. What could Logger have done to earn such a bad reputation, considering all of the victors have killed at least one tribute, whether out of self-defence or a mercy kill? Read on and witness the tale of the 'District Traitor'.

* * *

"Part of me hopes he didn't make it through the rebellion alive," Katniss said, a cold look in her eyes. "I know, it's probably messed up to hope he went down, but… you remember what he did, right?"

"I can't forget it," Peeta agreed. "I'd not wish him dead… moreso that he'd leave and never bother anybody else again. I just can't support him."

"Nobody would blame you for that. Not when his own district hated him," Katniss said, shaking her head. "Do you think the Games caused that nasty side of his to break out, or do you think his cowardice would've had something like that happen eventually anyway?"

"I honestly don't know," Peeta replied. "All I know is the Sixty First Games were even worse than most Games normally were."

"Here, here," Katniss agreed.

The pair held a brief moment of silence, more out of principle than any particular liking towards Logger. The district traitor had very few fans, especially amongst his fellow victors from Seven.

* * *

 **61** **st** **Annual Hunger Games**

 **Name:** Logger Barlow

 **Gender:** Male

 **District:** 7

 **Age:** 18

 **Kills:** 2

* * *

 **Cowardice and Bravery**

 **Betrayal and Loyalty**

 **Logger and Librae**

 **The 61** **st** **Hunger Games**

* * *

In District Seven the youths tend to be on the stronger side, even those of little money and much hunger. Living in a district where swinging an axe at trees for more than forty years is just a fact of life inevitably builds up plenty of muscle in the children and teenagers, easily putting them in good shape for when they grow into full time forced lumberjacks and lumberjills.

Well, at least until some nasty accident inevitably happens on the job anyway.

Logger was certainly one of these people. He did, after all, stand an an impressive six feet and five inches with a particularly solid set of abs to go with it. He looked like one hell of a prime specimen physically and he wasn't dumb either. He seemed like a solid young man with a perfect set of skills.

Perception is not always reality. After all, Logger was something very few in Seven could be described as and even fewer would admit to being.

He was a coward, all the way up to the levels of a dirty rat. Many of the young tree choppers of Seven were, if not incredibly brave, at least willing to stand up for family and do what was right when the chips were down.

Logger was the sort to crack under any sort of pressure and sell out anybody to save his own skin, even if just slightly. He'd do it whether it was selling out people who once called him a friend to Peacekeepers, backing up a hooligan in something morally ambiguous to evade being punched or even getting his own uncle send to the stocks after stealing a slice of bread, all to try and win a little favour with the new, stricter peacekeepers who had been deployed.

Needless to say, but it shall be henceforth said anyway, Logger was an unpopular piece of shit.

Logger didn't care about how unpopular he was, not when it meant he was alive and well. Popularity wasn't any good if he was dead. It was every man for himself in a nation like Panem.

All of this made Logger an outcast even within his own home. His family were upstanding and loyal folk, third generation owners of a fine shoe store. More than that, they were brave and loyal. They weren't happy with Logger's constant displays of cowardice.

"There's a difference between safety and cowardice," his father had said once or twice or thrice… or a dozen times.

Logger never saw that difference. As far as he was concerned the only way to remain safe, alive and well was to side with whoever had power at any given moment and do whatever they said or anything it took to impress them. It had helped him live to the age of eighteen and gotten him safely through six of his seven reapings.

It didn't get him through his last reaping.

It was a very eventful reaping that year, not only from the distant boom of thunder amongst the grey clouds, but for the reactions when the female tribute was reaped. The escort – this year dressed as a can of tomato soup – pranced over to the girls' reaping bowl and, after taking an eager gander down at the pens of children, plucked a name from within.

She didn't even pretend it wasn't a fix.

"Bloom Nakamura!"

From the twelve year olds section emerged a little brunette, shaking from her shoes to her blouse. Her three elder sisters in the fourteen year olds section could only sob, horrified for their sister but none quite brave enough to volunteer for her. Off in the audience to the side their mother, Paisley, was already sobbing.

On the stage with his fellow victors Snag almost had a heart attack.

Her daddy may have been able to win and become exempt from four of his reapings, but this didn't spare Bloom the process all children of the districts were forced to go through. She stood on the reaping stage, not a volunteer to be found, and tried not to cry.

She, despite what many would be forgiven for assuming, did not shed any tears. She put on her bravest face, knowing her daddy won with far worse odds than whatever she had. If he could do it, so could she.

The escort said some simpering words, calling Bloom 'cute' and moved over to the boy's reaping bowel. Logger prayed with all his heart that any of the boys around him would be taken away to the Capitol. Anybody, from the youngest to eldest boy in the reaping square. Just not him!

"Logger Barlow!"

Logger lacked any of the soft sort of dignity that Bloom had shown. He openly wept as he slowly shuffled his way towards the stage, openly pleading for somebody to take his place before it was too late. Why should he have to go when others objectively had a better chance to win?

His only answer was a soft howl of the wind and several glares being sent his way. Few were fond of the well known self-serving coward of their district and lacked a reason to take his place in the arena.

Bloom held herself together throughout the goodbyes within the judgement building, assuring her sisters that she wasn't mad at them and telling her mama she loved her. She felt as ready as she could be for what lay ahead. After all, she had the best mentor there ever was, didn't she?

Logger didn't hold himself together at all. He cried and snivelled for the whole time his family were there, shrieking in fear and accusing his younger cousin for not taking his place. He hadn't much hope at all in his mentor of the year, Fir.

Normally twelve year olds were quickly written off by the Capitol and the burly eighteen year olds were seen as the obvious frontrunners at the reapings, but in that year District Seven broke tradition. Brave little Bloom already had plenty of fans and support while Logger had been written off as an unpatriotic cry baby.

The cry baby part was right. He stayed up all night doing exactly that.

* * *

Librae had not chosen to go to the Capitol that year. She waved off Tide and Anchor, the mentors for that year, with a slightly goofy smile on her face until the tribute train had left the train station.

She let her smile drop as soon as she was back in her own house. It was a year without volunteers of any sort, so it was unlikely that the tributes were going to get along with the most greedy and arrogant of Fours victors. They'd entered the Games for fame and fortune, after all.

The two thirteen year olds were doomed.

Librae felt bad for them, but she couldn't go along to the Capitol that year. The official excuse was that the team simply had not needed her and that she was going to practise surfing for an upcoming championship.

The real reason was fuck the Games, she had Peacekeeper pirates to deal with.

It had been years now since several Peacekeepers, pissed off with their poor wages and having to obey very scant amounts of rules in their duty, had broken away from Capitol rule and stationed themselves off shore in stolen boats. Every so often they'd come to the shore somewhere in Four and pillage, burn and otherwise just cause terror. The Capitol, being located far inland from what the pirates could actually do, were content to do nothing and just act like the problem was not even there. Not like it was really effecting quotas, just District Four's quality of life.

Librae had decided that if the Capitol would do nothing… _she_ would. It had all been worked out pretty well overall. She and a squad of others who cared for their home and opposed the pirates would be heading out to open water and taking the fight right to them. A couple hundred homemade bombs and firearms would see the job be completed.

Librae left her home unseen and without any suspicion cast upon herself as she made her way through the streets of Four, her typical doofus expression firmly upon her face. She's perfected it ever since her own Games ended.

She didn't want to meet the fate that Orion and her dear escort Tuti, even if she strongly believed Orion had deserved what terrible death had befallen him.

It was this training at pretending to be a total goober that made it so easy to reach the boat as planned and meet up with her fellow anti-pirate squad.

"Hey dudes!" Librae explaining, waving to them in greeting. "Ready to bring the gnarly fight to those bastards out at sea?"

"Yes dude yes!" her squad replied, all saluting and cheering eagerly.

With Games season being the focus of everybody nobody really noticed that an extra fishing ship had left the docks that day. None among the Capitol staff located there had noticed the papers and permit for fishing far out at sea were forged.

* * *

The training centre was a place that tended to bring out the very best and very worst in tributes. The Sixty First Games were no exception to this whatsoever, whether it was the girls from One and Two massacring dozens of dummies with their daggers or the girls from Ten and Twelve sobbing off in dark corners, already resigned to death and crying for their parents.

Logger and Bloom demonstrated both sides of the spectrum this year and left an impression upon the other tributes and the gamemakers.

Bloom left a strong impression. Despite being the youngest tribute she refused to let anybody see her cry. She spent the training days working her butt off trying to gain muscle, skills and some kind of an alliance. The boy from Six, one year her elder, was agreeable enough and the two youngsters had things seemingly worked out, at least for the opening seconds. The gamemakers had to hand it to Bloom, she'd really adapted to being rigged into the Games and was showing herself to be surprisingly adept with a short scimitar. A twelve year old victor had never happened – only the little bastard who escaped a few years prior – but it certainly was not intended to be something impossible.

She scored an eight.

Logger left a terrible impression. He was scared to go near most of the other tributes aside the very young ones, paranoid that any of them could kill him at a moment's notice. His bulky form and intimidating fists soon became useless when it became so obvious to the rest that he was a complete coward. That, and a big suck up.

Logger followed the careers around, trying his best to buddy up with them and get them to like him. If he could fit into the powerful pack then his worries were gone, at least for a while. The careers found him to be a desperate, annoying pest. The boy from One mostly just found him amusing, like how one might look at a goofy pet. They made it clear, through the use of thrown food and plates on the third day of training, that he was not welcome in their pack and that they had no use for such a pathetic sell-out. They didn't want somebody who would fold so easily and likely betray anybody in sight to get ahead. Logger could only weep, his plan falling apart under himself.

He scored a four.

The interviews, similarly, showed tributes at their best and worst. The careers left the audience eager and slightly intimidated. The Fives really didn't manage to do much of anything aside garner a few awkward coughs.

Bloom won the hearts of the audience with her tales of her family, how amazing her daddy was at being a mentor and that she was gonna go down as the youngest victor there ever was. She wasn't afraid and she was ready to survive! All this and her dress smelt of fresh forest fruit. She was an easy stand-out for many. Sponsors were sending in pledges before her interview ended.

Logger won the dubious honour of being the most hated tribute by the audience. A bad boy or a big villain was one thing, but a cry-baby begging for his life and promising outrageous things in exchange for sponsors? So unpatriotic and pathetic. Caesar felt really bad for him, not that he could allow himself to be biased, and tried to bring things around. Alas, even the mighty charisma of Caesar failed to do a thing to help Logger. The cowardly lumberjack hadn't so much shot himself in the foot as he had nuked his toes into dust.

He spent the last night before the Games locked away in his room, trying not to cry. He failed on all accounts.

He didn't leave his room. He didn't want to see Bloom spending the night with Snag, father and daughter watching the TV together.

He missed the broadcast that the largest Capitol bank had been robbed and the culprit had vanished. He missed how Snag silently facepalmed, torn between exasperation and glee. True to the promise he'd made on the last night before the second quell Jack had robbed the bank to get sponsor funds for Snag's offspring.

What's a thief without keeping his few legit promises?

* * *

Librae's mission was ongoing and wasn't exactly going as fast as she had assumed. The Peacekeeper pirates were far offshore, far beyond the most distant of oil rigs the Capitol had set up and left in semi-disuse.

Librae was starting to wonder if she should have packed a GPS.

"Dudes, what do we do?" Librae asked her crew. "We've been out here for almost a week now. We only have enough supplies for three more weeks."

"Keep the boat moving, that's what," the Captain replied. "We'll have to come across them eventually."

"Maybe we could make some kind of a beacon? Something to draw them in a bit closer?" Librae suggested, gesturing to one of the large harpoon guns set up on the tip deck. "Close enough to nail 'em with that?"

"Let's give it three or four days. After that, why not?" The Captain nodded, turning to gaze down at the crew. "Think this lot are gonna be able to wait things out for that long?"

The Captain and the surfer looked at the crew below, the lot of them singing some kind of a goofy song across the top deck complete with dancing and an awkward amount of dancing.

"We've got cabin fever, we lost what sense we had! We got cabin fever, we're all going mad!"

The Captain facepalmed while Librae could only force an awkward grin, a helpless sort of groan escaping her lips.

"I'm really starting to worry about this voyage, dude."

* * *

Logger was sobbing before his launch plate had even clicked into place. The countdown was halfway over before he'd wiped away enough of his tears to get a good look at the arena around him. It was a tiny mercy, but at least this it wasn't anything like the vile swamp of the year prior.

It was another grand outdoor arena full of nature's majesty. Beautiful grassy mountains were all around, a distantly visible wind billowing up at the highest peaks. A grand forest covered much of the low ground, all of the trees fresh and rather fragrant. A big clear lake was to the east of the silver cornucopia and, though none of the tributes could see it, it was just one of seven gorgeous lakes within the arena. Clearly the gamemakers had been thinking ahead to when the arena would open as a tourist hot spot after the Games were over.

Logger glanced around, trying to work out what the hell to do. The girl from One was to his direct left while the tough boy from Eight was to his right. Bloom was a distance away, gazing intently at a backpack a few meters from her own pedestal. She, unlike Logger, seemed determined.

She wasn't close to wetting herself.

The girl from One gave Logger a rather sinister smirk. "Ready to get chopped up like a tree?"

The gong ran only seconds later. The threat, and all of Logger's other fears, was all it took for him to let out the most high pitched scream in the past eight years of the Games and run for his life into the forest, blubbering as he went.

He was so fast that he he'd already make it a hundred yards before the first splashes of blood were spilt upon the ground. The screams of agony and despair only made him thunder even faster through the wild forest.

Logger may have chosen to run for his life, but Bloom had not. She ran to grab up the backpack and then made the careful charge towards the side of the cornucopia where a short scimitar had been placed down for her. She dodged the brawl between the boys from Four and Eight, jumped over the corpse of the boy from Twelve, rolled right under the boys from Two and Five who grabbled hand to hand and, to top it all off, ducked under a thrown axe from the girl from Three.

She managed to grab her bounty and speedily run for her life into the forest as well. Unfortunately her ally from Six did not manage to make it out with her.

He'd had his head smashed wide open on his launch pedestal by the boy from One. Bloom could only sympathetically weep at the sight as she fled the carnage going on at the silver horn.

The bloodbath finally ended twenty minutes later when the boy from One finished torturing the little girl from Four, having grown bored of knifing her all over. As her body hit the ground the cannons began to fire.

Ten cannons overall. A sombre sound to Bloom's ears, the loss of innocent life being a terrible thing.

They were music to Logger's ears, confirmations that he was already much closer to home than before.

* * *

Librae hauled herself back onto the boat, taking the time to make sure the crew member who had fallen overboard safely got back on first. She approached the captain, ringing her hair out, with a slightly exasperated look in her eyes.

"That's the sixth crew member to fall overboard since our voyage began," Librae said, slightly bewildered.

"It's not a good look. Honestly, I'm amazed we've got lost anybody outright just yet," the Captain paused, as if doubting her own words. "Actually, I'm not so sure we haven't."

"Maybe we should do a roll call?" Librae suggested. "Not like we got anything else to do. No sign of those pirates yet."

It wasn't long after this that the crew were all gathered together on the top deck and the Captain had a paper pad and pen to start taking attendance.

"Alright, so lately I've noticed some of you have been falling overboard. Librae's been going a great job keeping you all alive, but she's just one women. We want to be sure she's not missed somebody," the Captain explained.

"Right on. So, like, just yell something out to confirm to us that you're still here," Librae added. "Or, if you can't speak for whatever reason, jump up and down like a total goober."

"Yeah, basically that," the Captain looked down at the list. "Alright, first up, Fisheggs Malloy."

"Here!"

"Bandy Andy."

"Here!"

"Clueless Niel."

"Here… I think?"

"Black eyed pea?"

"Here!"

"Old Tom?"

An old man raised his hand. "Here!"

"Dead old Tom?"

A withered and bony old man weakly raised his hand. "Here…!"

"Dead Tom?"

One of the crew members held up a skeleton and made it wave to the captain like a sort of puppet.

"…Okay, I think?" The Captain awkwardly cleared their throat. "What the? … Big-Fat-Ugly-Bug-Face-Baby-Eating Barracuda?"

" _ **I'm rIghT HerE**_!"

The Captain gave Librae a helpless sort of look, looking like she regretted the voyage oh so very much.

"Who hired this crew, Librae?" she asked.

"Beats me. I just asked who wanted to assist in getting rid of the pirates and, boom, here they are. I didn't pick any of them specifically," Librae managed to lightly giggle. "Might as well have one last laugh before the battle begins right?"

"…I guess so," the Captain replied.

* * *

Logger stumbled through the darkness of the arena during the third night, covered in all kinds of grime and filth from the forest. His eyes were twitching madly, his breath was shaky and far from sounding normal and, most of all, he was sobbing.

He'd hardly stopped sobbing in terror since the Games had begun. He'd not seen any other tribute since the Games began, but that did nothing to ease his terror. He was convinced all of them wanted to kill him.

Ten were left aside himself, the entire career pack among them. Thoughts of their sharp weapons and deadly sadism had him sobbing without much time required.

"Why… why…" Logger sobbed as he made his way over a few logs on the forest floor. "I wanna go home…"

Terrified Logger may have been, but he wasn't unobservant. He had keen hearing and heard the shadowy figure slowly approaching him before they were faintly visible within the darkness.

Logger reacted instantly, pure panic and survival instincts driving his actions. He grabbed one of the logs laid upon the ground and, without looking to see what weapons his adversary was holding, lunged at them with a frantic screech.

It was over in seconds. A few smashes of the log was all it took for the agonised screams and sobs to come to a sudden end, but Logger's panic and cowardice ensured he did not stop for another three minutes.

The corpse of the girl from Nine was hardly recognisable by that point. A small thing indeed, the girl had no weapons on her and had clearly been slowly dying of hunger. She'd only approached Logger in hopes of him being willing to share even a single grape with her.

With bits of brain and splatters of the girl's blood staining his shirt Logger took off through the darkness once again, all the more desperate to find some form of safety within the terrible arena.

* * *

It was late at night out on the ocean, the crew having still not yet located the pirates. Librae sat below deck watching transmission incoming from the mainland of Panem. For the most part it was just Fiona and Lawrence reruns.

Specifically, the arc where Lawrence turned into a flesh eating zombie.

"Too bad we didn't get any popcorn before setting sail," Librae mused, kicking back and laying her feet upon the desk she was sitting at. "Would've been great. Ah well."

It wasn't long before Librae got bored of watching Fiona and Lawrence, instead starting to flip channels on the old television. Alas nothing was on.

Nothing aside a breaking news bulletin.

Librae watched the recap of the Hunger Games with sadness, nothing but pity in her heart for the dead children from District Four. Neither had lasted long, just as she had predicted.

It was the report from a Capitol newscaster that really got her attention.

"Breaking news. Thanks to reclaimed public records thought to be lost and recently obtained footage from sunken ships far out to sea from District Four, we can now confirm the identity of the leader of the Peacekeeper pirates. Once a Peacekeeper and later a Gamemaker, Rutile North has been spotted leading his fellow pirates into raids aboard cargo ships, stealing Capitol supplies and leaving the crews aboard the boats feeling slightly inconvenienced."

Librae was partly focused on being annoyed that the poor dead sailors of Four had not been properly acknowledged, let alone even been named. But it wasn't just that which held her attention. Her eyes were wide, a sort of horrified recognition within them when little bits of footage were played on the screen, all the gory parts removed to ensure the Capitol citizen's bubble would not be popped.

The very old man looked hateful and sadistic, that much anybody could figure out. But Librae saw something even worse about the man from only a second of observing him.

It was the same man who had beaten her dad into a coma he'd never woken from before he died. The same one that had her mother killed. The same one who observed her private training sessions almost thirty years ago. The same one that dragged her away from the party where Orion met his horrific fate.

"…Rematch," Librae whispered, starting to ball her fists. "Revenge."

* * *

It was the afternoon of the seventh day in the arena and Logger was exhausted. He was out of supplies, out of options and all but out of luck. It was a miracle that he'd managed to survive to the top eight tributes of the Games.

He staggered weakly through a forest clearing, branch in hand. He'd not drank anything in almost two days and by now his body, strong as it was, had begun to shut down.

"Please… please…" Logger weakly gazed at the sky high above the canopy of the breezy forest. "Water, please… I'll do anything… I don't wanna die…"

No parachutes came down. It was only a few minutes later that Logger finally collapsed on the ground, starting to slowly die in the mud. He could only let out the most pitiful of whimpers.

He would have been dead before sundown if Bloom hadn't been the tribute who found him. The little girl, still maintaining her humanity and kindness even a week into the Games, did not hesitate to drag her district partner out of the mud and press her metallic bottle of water to his lips.

Logger awoke two hours later, a little of the life within him restored. He still felt like shit, that was for certain, but at least he was somewhat able to think clearly now. Gone was his thirst and… did he smell meat?

His gaze landed upon the small figure sitting on a stump, watching him with a contemplative look and a knife in her hands.

"…Bloom?" Logger choked out.

Bloom dropped the knife and any attempt at being serious. Tackle hugging Logger was clearly the more important thing to be doing at that point.

"Oh my gosh you're aliiiiiiiive!" Bloom squeaked, hugging Logger tightly.

It was a few moments of shrill screaming and panicking before Logger realised that Bloom was not trying to kill him. On the contrary she was being downright friendly to him, practically acting like a little sister would. At least, how he imagined one would at any rate.

"Uh… hi?" Logger eventually said. "What happened?"

"You nearly died, but then you didn't die," Bloom help up her water bottle up proudly. "I gave you _water_!"

At around the time the audience were awwww'ing over the little girl from Seven Logger was starting to wonder if she was a threat to his safety or might have gone a little crazy. He'd hardly spoken to her before the Games – was she always so perky and playful, even in such a horrible situation?

"Why did you save me?" Logger asked, dusting some dried mud off of his shirt. "It's kill or be killed, every man and women for themselves in here. Bloom, it's the Hunger Games, last one to scream wins."

"Uh huh, I know that," Bloom replied, cheeky enough to practically roll her eyes. "I've twelve, not dumb… but deathmatch or not, leaving you to die would be rude. _Rude_ Logger! Mama always said it's bad to be rude!"

And that, seemingly, was that. Logger had lucked into gaining an ally and being saved from death. He could only try to keep up with Bloom as she led him in a random direction through the forest, the plan being to find a cave or something similar.

He kept himself alert for any sign of trouble nearby. He wanted to be sure he could alert Bloom and ensure both of them could run like hell the second things looked bad.

And if things looked really, really bad… well, it would not be the first time he'd leave somebody behind to whatever fate had in store for them.

Bloom was nice, sure, but only one could live. It had to be him.

 _It just had to_.

* * *

There had been no sign of the Peacekeeper pirates even after a week out at sea and the crew were beginning to get impatient. None moreso than Librae. The surfer woman had decided that enough was enough and it was time to lure the pirates over to the ship.

To that end she'd set off a few rafts, each oi them set ablaze with fuel and firewood. After that all it took was anchoring the ship and waiting for Rutile and his pirates to make their way towards them.

She'd be ready for them.

"You sure this is a good idea?" the Captain asked the victor.

"Uh huh. Totally dude… and hey, we came out here to fight the pirates. Not to sail around and sing sea shanties," Librae replied, her focus remaining upon the object she was fiddling with upon the table.

"I guess you're right. I'll keep a guard rotation going on. They won't be able to sneak up on us," the Captain glowered a little. "I'll take pleasure sinking their damn ships. After all the people they've murdered…"

"Got that right dude," Librae agreed, her voice uncharacteristically cold.

The Captain glanced at the vengeful look on Librae's face and then down at the object upon the table. It was Librae's surfboard, a set of bladed spikes almost attached to the front just like how it looked in the finale of Librae's own Hunger Games.

"…Okay, something is bugging you. What's up?" the Captain asked. "I mean, aside the obvious stuff. What's bothering _you_ specifically?"

Librae attached the spikes onto the front of the surfboard. They fit together with a metallic click of absolute finality.

"Their leader is the one who killed my parents. He took my family and my childhood away from me," Librae replied, clenching her fists until her knuckles turned white. "Simple surfer or not, I'm giving him hell."

The Captain laid a hand upon Librae's shoulder.

"We'll all give them hell," the Captain said, a dark smirk on her face.

* * *

The eighth night in the arena was a night that nobody could ever forget, not even long after the Hunger Games came to their end.

It was the night Logger crossed a line that nobody could forgive.

He and Bloom had been making good progress through the arena, making a beeline for a mountain. The idea wasn't a bad one – seek high ground and prevent tributes from being able to sneak up on them.

The cannon that had fired during the day gave them the extra push needed to keep moving. Logger had been nothing short of delighted to see that the boy from One had been the tribute to meet his demise. It had been a nasty bear mutt that did it, not that Logger knew this.

They'd planned to just take a two hour rest in the depths of the forest. It was only meant to be a power nap before the journey to the mountains resumed.

It was all the time the careers needed to track them down. Even after taking a few scratches and hits from the bear they were far from unable to hunt and kill their prey.

It seemed that the Sevens had no chance whatsoever before the careers began hacking them to pieces with their sharp weapons. They were forced onto the knees as the career trio circled around them, laughing mockingly.

Bloom kept her head held high. Even in the face of her death she would not let anybody see her cry. She took the time to look at a nearby camera and tell her family she loved them. She was terrified, just like anybody would be, but she was still herself at heart right to the end. She wasn't going to be anything but herself in her final moments.

Logger had quite a different plan. He begged and sobbed for his life.

"Please, _please_! Don't kill me!" he begged, breaking down and wailing. "I'll do whatever you want me to! I'll be your servant! I'll give you anything you want! Money, fame, treasure, power, your own galaxy, please!"

The careers exchange a few awkward looks. How exactly did the cowardly lumberjack plan to give them a galaxy of all things? That was something even the Capitol would freely admit was impossible.

Logger didn't cease his crying and pleading. Not even Bloom's quiet attempts to comfort him did anything. His voice was cracking and reaching an almost impossibly high pitch as the boy from Two stood over him, a large axe gripped in his massive hand.

"I'll do anything!" Logger sobbed. "Anything!"

The boy from Two put a hand to his chin, thinking this over. Sure, Logger was clearly a coward and a sell-out, but he did have some muscle. He'd be a good pack mule. But did he really mean it when he said _anything_? The boy from the masonry district doubted it very much, but since when was it no fun to give somebody an impossible challenge?

Not like the coward would actually do it.

"Anything, you say? Alright, we'll let you join us if you can do one little thing for us," the boy from Two teased.

"Anything!" Logger whimpered, tears welling up in his eyes.

The boy from Two pointed to the knife fallen at Logger's side and then towards Bloom. "Cut her to pieces and you can join us."

Logger did not hesitate. Not even for one second.

The careers watched, stumped and perhaps even a little bit horrified, as Logger instantly tackled Bloom to the ground and began stabbing and cutting away at her tiny body. Her pleads for mercy,. her cries of betrayed despair, her sobs that she had trusted him… all of it quickly turned into bloody gurgles as Logger kept stabbing and slashing away at her without a moment's delay.

By the time Logger was finished doing the deed he was covered in blood, Bloom was hardly recognisable anymore, the careers were wide eyed…

…And District Seven were nothing short of sickened. They no longer wanted to win the Games. They wanted Logger dead. He was no longer welcome home.

That was to say nothing of Snag's own despair or that of Paisley and Bloom's sisters. All of them were screaming, vomiting and close to passing out.

Logger hardly seemed to even register what he had done, simply lowering the bloodied knife and turning back to the careers.

"Was that good enough? I know she's dead, but I can cut her up even more if you need me to? You're the boss! I'll do anything!" Logger exclaimed, shaking from head to toe.

The boy from Two let out a low whistle. "That was pretty brutal, even by _my_ standards."

"Got that right," the girl from Two added, stunned. "Well… no backsies I guess. Fine, you can join us Seven. Kick the body ten times and carry our stuff."

"Anything you say!" Logger agreed, relief filling him up. Against all odds, he's secured his survival. At least for another day.

All it cost was his little district partner… but surely she'd have done the same. Only one could live in the end. That's what he kept telling himself as he carried the carers equipment for them, doing his best to keep pace with them through the dark forest.

He received his first and only sponsor at sunrise of the next day. A simple note from his mentor, Fir.

'You're on your own now. I have no words. Shame on you.'

Logger shuddered. Not out of guilt, but out of fear of how no sponsor gifts would be coming for him. That was a problem, a _big_ problem.

His district thought the bigger problem was Logger coming home.

* * *

"What do you think we should do once the pirates are dead?" the Captain asked.

Librae considered the question for a moment, unsure. "What do you mean dude?"

"Well, Four will be safe once they're all dead… but what then? We return to the country ruled by the Capitol?" the Captain shook her head. "Why do that when we could just sail away to our heart's content? There has to be more land out there besides Panem. The Capitol says there's nothing, but that's just it… they're probably lying."

"Well…" Librae paused, tempted by the idea. "We don't have much left in the way of supplies. Could we even survive such a journey?"

"We can if we steal everything that the pirates have aboard their ships," the Captain replied. "Just think about it, alright? A fresh start, a country without any Games or impossible laws or… or so much depravity… to me, that's paradise."

"It sure sounds nice," Librae agreed, longingly.

Librae didn't continue until the captain left the room and headed for the top deck. Only then did Librae let out a soft sort of sigh, a weak smile on her face.

"Too bad I'm such a softie. Heh, I'm soft as a jellyfish," Librae mused. "I could never abandon Four, not when the people there need me. Not when the Capitol is still needing people to fight against it. Leaving them? That'd be… _uncool_."

And so, with that said, Librae went back to preparing her board and her body for the encounter that was surely looming very near. It wouldn't be long now until the pirates finally found them.

It was just a matter of time.

* * *

Logger followed the careers around like an obedient pet of sorts, doing absolutely anything they asked of him, no matter how humiliating or ridiculous. He lacked the nerve to get on the bad side of the deadliest tributes in the arena… for that matter, he lacked the nerve to get on the bad side of a tribute in general.

The pack had made decent progress, tracking down the boy from Eight and showing him no mercy. There had been some issues when the boy from Two lost his left arm from a bear mutt, issues that only worsened when a terrible infection left him immobile and abandoned by the pack.

In the end the pack, meaning basically just the girls from One and Two, took out the tough cowgirl from Ten on the tenth day of the Games. The careers moved away, letting the hovercraft take the body out of the arena. They rested up by the side of a river, the only sounds being the flow of the water, the chirps of distant birds and Logger's soft panting from all the running he'd had to do.

They were the only ones left.

"Come on One, we can take her!" Logger exclaimed, already trying to hide behind the beautiful killer from One and toady up to her. "You and me, the final two. Please! You know I've served you well, don't you trust me? Don't I deserve a chance to help you?"

The girl from One was not stupid, knowing that Logger was only siding with her as she was ever so slightly more beaten than the girl from Two. She did not hesitate to stab Logger in the gut with her dagger.

"That's all the reward a traitor deserves," she replied, spitting at his face.

Logger was shoved over into the mud, left forgotten and slowly bleeding out. The blade had missed anything that would be fatal, but he was bleeding out fast. He had truly been rewarded as a traitor deserved. The careers paid him no mind at all as their own vicious battle at the riverside began in full, blade against blade. They'd already written him off like he were nothing.

Logger whimpered and sobbed, barely able to keep his eyes open. This was it, his end was nigh. He did everything the careers demanded and they killed him anyway. It wasn't fair, he told himself.

Two breathless gasps filled the air, through by then Logger had passed out. The career girls each staggered a few steps and fell to the ground. The girl from One collapsed into the mud while the other fell into the river and was swiftly washed away.

Both had struck each other right in the heart at the same time.

The girl from Two drowned quickly. The girl from One bled out pretty fast, her vitals shutting down in a quick sequence.

Logger bled, he bled a lot… but he still bled slower than the girl from One had. That was why the final cannon to fire wasn't for him.

Logger was taken from the arena as the nation's newest victor to light applause. He was never the most popular tribute within the Capitol and many saw his win as a let-down.

District Seven were outright disgusted. The one year they did not want a victor and now they had one. All of them, even Logger's family, wanted nothing to do with the traitor who butchered his little district partner. The girl who saved him from dying of thirst.

Snag was silent, physically ill from horror and hatred. His family would have to live only a few doors down from the monster who killed the youngest member of their family…

* * *

The battle was on.

The pirates had found Librae and her crew shortly before dawn had arrived over the world that morning. The onboard gattling guns and harpoon launchers did their part to cause plenty of damage to the ships of the Peacekeeper pirates, even sinking one of the four boats, but inevitably the gap had been narrowed.

From there it was pure chaos, sailors and pirates alike jumping to each other's ships and getting stuck into combat. Some used blades, others reported to their fists, but many drew blood and were made to bleed in return. It was hard to tell who was winning at first.

What was easy to tell, however, was that the waves were picking up in strength and becoming incredibly rough and wild. Too wild for the second of the pirates' ships, already damaged from the opening gunfire, which swiftly began to sink under the waves and took some of the pirates out with it.

"Man the cannons, keep the pressure on these bastards!" the Captain yelled. "Show no mercy! They showed us none! Remember all those who peacekeepers, pirates and not, have killed!"

Librae watched her fellow sailors and surfers battle it out against their adversaries, but her fight wasn't against them. Her score with Rutile was the central on her mind.

He stood at the very back of the biggest of the pirate ships, watching the carnage unfold. The very old, cruel man held a pistol in both hands. It was obvious he'd already claimed several lives and was more than ready to claim several more.

Not if Librae could help it. She easily vaulted her way over to his ship, her surfboard strapped onto her back, and was quick to engage him with a scimitar. He blocked the would-be killing blow with a blade of his own, his reflexes ever so fast for a man his age.

"It's going to take more than that to kill me," Rutile hissed.

"You took everything from me," Librae hissed, putting more force against Rutile in hopes of winning the blade lock. "I'm getting my revenge, in this life or the next!"

Rutile just eyed Librae in disdain, a little bit of confusion filling his eyes as he looked over the surfer women.

"I have no idea who you are," Rutile replied, trying to kick Librae in her leg. He succeeded, but Librae bared the pain.

"You kill my mom and beat my dad into a coma when I was a kid. You 'silenced them', said they deserved it," Librae began to push Rutile back towards the edge of the boat. "You became a gamemaker, you dared lay your hands on me when Orion died."

Rutile still looked lost, managing a brief sort of shrug.

"I've ruined lots of lives. You can't expect me to remember all of them," the old pirate replied. "Who cares?"

"I care!" Librae yelled, going for a second strike at Rutile.

The boat rocked wildly at that moment, the pair falling to the ground. Librae leapt back from Rutile's swing of his own sword, and back some more when some of his remaining henchmen close in on her. With nowhere to run the surfer made a leap over the side of the boat.

"Ha, stupid women," Rutile muttered, letting one of his crew help him back to his feet. "Same as the rest of those district animals."

The remaining two boats broke away from their clash and were soon circling each other under the mighty storm that was billowing through the night. Both factions eyed the other, waiting for them to make the first move and, they hoped, the first major mistake.

Neither ended up making a move. Not when a figure was riding the horrific waves between the boats. Rutile could only stare, stumped.

"What the hell?"

Librae was putting her decades of surfing prowess to good use, surfing with ease across the wild water and gradually making her way towards the last boat of the Peacekeeper pirates. She narrowed her eyes, unusually focused. Gone was her normal spaciness and slightly goofy look. All that remained was a women finally able to avenge her dear parents.

The pirates tried to gun her down with one of their own gattling guns, but the speed Librae was going at and how the pouring rain kept getting in the way of aiming made hitting her an impossible task.

"Holy shit! She's got a bomb!"

Indeed she did. Librae gripped the bomb in her grasp with both hands, twisting both sections of it sideways. In one instant it began to glow. She didn't hear the desperate warnings of her own crew, their pleading to stop, that the bomb was way too strong for such a close attack.

Librae hit the biggest wave of her life and became airborne.

"Cowa-fucking-bunga!"

She descended right towards Rutile. In one motion she tossed the bomb towards the centre of the pirate ship and leapt off of her surfboard, doing a few flips in the air.

The surfboard's spikes skewered Rutile right in the chest, the evil pirate collapsing to his knees and then to his side. Blood oozed from his mouth as his breathing began to slow down.

Librae had figured that it would be easy to remain in the water and wait for pick-up from her ship, perhaps grab onto debris if she had to. Being in freezing water was nothing new to her.

She only realised the error she'd made when the bomb went off, far more powerful than she had thought it would be.

The pirate ship was vaporised within the massive fireball and the onboard fuel began to explode moments later. Driftwood and debris were sent flying all around. The rest of the sailors and surfers who were still alive were safely out of range.

Librae was not.

She was struck on the back of her head by the flat of her surfboard and soon began to loose consciousness. The last thing she could think of as she was washed into a crate was how her parents were finally avenged. Everything faded away into something deeper than darkness after that.

The Captain could only watch, too horrified to savour the defeat of her enemies, and call out fruitlessly for Librae.

"Get us over there!" she yelled, desperate. "Come on, we have to find her! Quick, there's still time!"

They searched.

They searched for quite some time.

They did not manage to find Librae. It seemed like there was to be no denying what had happened. She'd died as a result of her final attack, her display of perfect surfing and pirate exploding leading to the brave surfer exiting the world for good.

It was with heavy hearts that the crew made the decision to return to Panem. People deserved to know that the pirates were disposed of and what had become of one of the dearest victors of the district. Not just that, but maybe Librae had been right… maybe fleeing Panem while there were still people in danger from the Capitol was not the right thing to do. There was still work to be done.

"Do you think the Capitol will tell the real story of what happened to Librae?" one of the sailors asked the Captain.

"I doubt it. They'll probably just say it was a 'freak boating accident'," the Captain said, a depressed look already filling her face. "I say we tell the truth to anybody we can. Many will probably only hear the Capitol's version, but if at least a few people know the truth… well, that's good enough for now."

"Do you think we did any good out here Captain?" the sailor asked, sniffling.

"I think we did. The pirates are gone. Four is going to be a bit safer from now on," the Captain said, a relieved look in her eyes. "It's just as well. My little girl's only nine… she deserves to grow up without the threat of pirates… and if we're lucky, maybe without the Capitol one day. What's say we make this a regular thing, these vigilante missions? I think being rebels… it suits us."

"Right you are Captain Cresta," the sailor agreed, saluting.

* * *

Logger was rewarded fittingly for his cowardice.

He returned home and was greeted with absolutely hatred and coldness. Nobody wanted anything to do with him whatsoever. He'd been unpopular before the Games, sure, but maybe one day such issues could've been forgiven if he'd outgrown his cowardice. But what he did to Bloom? That could never be forgiven.

The crowd booed him from the moment he left the train, throwing produce and tree sap towards him. It was clear he was no longer welcome in Seven. He was no longer a Seven himself. He was just an unwelcome guest in their home.

The victors were not happy to share a village with him. Pliny was firm and displeased, Jack made his coldness no secret, Blight would cuss out Logger's name any chance he got, sweet and all loving Fir could only say she couldn't forgive him for what he did.

Snag… Snag never spoke to Logger nor acknowledged him. He genuinely thought he may kill Logger if he did. Paisley and Snag's remaining children similarly hated Logger and kept far away from him. He was nothing but slime in their eyes.

Logger had tried to insist it was not his fault. He'd only wanted to live, it was an impossible situation, anybody would have done the same. That was the one and only time that Snag broke his vow of silence.

"Bloom would never have done what you did. She'd have rather died than cross that line. She saved you… she showed you kindness and mercy, something that was sadly her one mistake. Seven does not kill Seven," Snag had clenched his fists, trying not to punch Logger. "You did not look guilty. You did not even look a little conflicted. _**You did not even hesitate before you killed her**_! You're dead to me and this entire district. You're alive… so, enjoy the life you've earned for yourself."

Snag never spoke to Logger again after that. Few in Seven did, not unless it was needed. He was forever labelled as the 'district traitor'.

It was why Logger ended up throwing his lot in with the Capitol. They treated him nicely, they did not blame him, they assured him that he did the right thing. They told him whatever he wanted to hear, wanting to have another victor firmly on their side for the future.

Logger, as he always did, clung to the strongest side and did whatever the Capitol told him to do. Anything that'd ensure he'd live just one more day and avoid getting into trouble.

He was the obvious choice for Snow to have kill the family of the last victor Seven would ever have, a fiery women that refused to be whored out after she won several years later.

It was little surprise that when the second rebellion broke out Logger was not among those the Capitol attacked or interrogated. He was known to be on their side and was used to try and gain an advantage over Seven in any way, shape or form. Who would know the district better than a person who grew up there?

It was going fine for Logger… up until it didn't. His entire squad of peacekeepers that had been protecting him were killed by rebels up in the trees faster than he could react and soon enough he was running for his life.

He ran until he could not run anymore, sunset filling the forest as he finally collapsed.

He was swiftly apprehended by the rebels and interrogated for any information on the Capitol. Logger didn't hesitate to tell them anything and everything they wanted to know. He even few in a few things unprompted in hopes it would spare him.

"There, I told you everything!" the young man pleaded hours later, finally running out of information to spill. "Please, let me go! I could be your spy. They don't know I sold them out, I could gather any information you need. Please…"

The lumberjacks who held him just looked at him in disgust.

"A traitor only deserves one thing," the leader amongst them said.

Logger was beaten, but ultimately left alive and tied up to a tree as the forest became dark. He figured that once the pain stopped and his vision wasn't so blurry he could untie himself and find his way back to the Capitol, one day at a time. He could still be useful to them.

Only then did he see why he'd been left alive this long. He promptly lost control of his bowels.

The glowing eyes of several vicious, starving wolf mutts stared at him from within the darkness.

* * *

Librae was rewarded fittingly for her bravery.

She was unconscious for quite a while, the crate she'd been knocked into just barely managed to bare the pressure of the waves and weather going on around it. It eventually broke, but by then it no longer mattered. Not when land was not even half a mile away.

Librae was washed up on shore, absolutely exhausted but nonetheless alive. She awoke just as the sun rose on the horizon.

"What… I'm alive…?" Librae looked down at herself in disbelief. "Righteous! …Where am I?"

Librae took in the site around her, amazed by what she was seeing. As far as her eye could see was a tropical paradise, untouched by people for hundreds of years. There was pale and soft sand, hundreds of fruit trees, chirps of wonderful birds and even a village, long abandoned but nonetheless hospitable, in walking distance.

"What is this place?" Librae whispered, slowly picking up her surfboard as it washed up beside her. "…This is paradise!"

Librae slowly managed to stand up, swaying for a few long moments. She glanced back, seeing only the ocean extending to the horizon and the sunrise beyond it. No sign of Panem was in sight.

"Where is everybody?" Librae whispered. "…Did they die… did they make it home?"

With little else she could do Librae decided to make her way into the nearby village in hopes of finding human company, or at least supplies. Maybe then she'd be able to work out where she was and what was going on.

And even if she couldn't, at least she'd washed up in what seemed like a wonderful place to live for a while. A long while, as she had no idea how to get off the island.

She didn't know what Hawaii was, after all, nor where it was in relation to Panem.

"Guess I might be here for a while," Librae mused, carefully taking a pineapple from a tree on her way into the old village. "Well, at least I won't be going hungry. If all else fails, I build a boat."

One day Librae, assumed deceased by the rest of Panem and added to the list of dead victors before the third quell, would finally assemble a boat that would be able to safely travel across the rough waves towards Panem.

One she would make it back home, safe and sound, to a grand homecoming.

One day things would become a bit awkward when it turned out her presence may have been able to spare several families from something truly awful… but that's another story.

* * *

Katniss gave one final glare down at Logger's imprinted face before making her way further down the street, Peeta right behind her. Even the boy with the bread found it hard to sympathise with Logger.

It was only a few moments before they reach the sixty second face along the massive street. The face who looked back at them was that of an almost feral young lady, a wild look in her eyes and her teeth bared for all who observed her. The sharp fangs were unmissable.

"Enobaria," Peeta quietly hummed to himself, thoughtful. "It's such a distant memory, but… she was so different before the Games. She came out as a totally different woman."

"What do you mean?" Katniss asked. "I can't remember that. I always had bigger things to keep my mind on."

"It's a long story," Peeta replied. "Let's just say she got stung."

"…What?" Katniss repeated, flatly.

* * *

There we are, Logger the district traitor! I feel like, for the most part, a lot of the outlier victors in this story are either nice people or clearly moreso good than bad. Not many are really, well, scumbags you know? So, enter Logger, a dirty coward and one who'd sell out anybody to save his own hide. Suffice to say I'm not fond of a dirty coward character (lovable cowards maybe, but imo it's a big distinction) and Logger himself is somebody I do not foresee topping many favourite lists. That said, it was a fun sort of plot to write – especially with Librae sharing the spotlight! – and serves as the reason why, in my canon, murdering one's own district partner if it's not a mercy kill / the final two is such an extreme taboo. Hope you guys liked seeing the last of Librae for quite some time. Originally she was among those who are confirmed dead before the 3rd quell and, well, 'officially' she is for now… but you know me, I'm a serious softie at heart and couldn't do it. Good thing I worked out a way to spare her and technically not break canon either haha. Stay tuned for more guys!

* * *

 **Stats**

 **District 1:** Peridot Gaudy (8th Games), Crystal McCree (14th Games), Bronze Marley (19th Games), Crown Martins (24th Games), Dollar Dettwieller (32nd Games), Mascara Court (41st Games), Platinum Twist (44th Games)

 **District 2:** Baron Overwhill (4th Games), Runa Peace (7th Games), Olga Machete (10th Games), Rook Valiant (17th Games), Boulder Atherston (20th Games), Vercingetorix Carnby (25th Games), Dragon Batofel (27th Games), Rhyder Overwhill (39th Games), Mercy Gregor (46th Games), Brutus Gunn (49th Games), Lyme Rabe (51st Games)

 **District 3:** Honorius Perthshire (5th Games), Pi Orbit (22nd Games), Beetee Latier (37th Games), Wiress Plummer (47th Games), Yohan Fairbane (58th Games)

 **District 4:** Museida Selkirk (3rd Games), Mags Flanagan (11th Games), Tide Luther (23rd Games), Librae Ogilvy (35th Games), Anchor Paddock (52nd Games)

 **District 5:** Shunt Gaspar (12th Games), Isobel Sparks (18th Games), Crimson Flanders (29th Games), Porter Tripp (38th Games), Neon Erg (48th Games), Wattzon Holmes (55th Games), Arendellian Spinner III (57th Games)

 **District 6:** Chassis Macalister (31st Games), Bentley Corduroy (54th Games), Porsche London (56th Games)

 **District 7:** Pliny Aransio (2nd Games), Fir Buzz (9th Games), Jack Tylos (21st Games), Snag Nakamura (34th Games), Blight Jordan (53rd Games), Logger Barlow (61st Games)

 **District 8:** Woof Casino (16th Games), Paige Murphy (30th Games), Spool Nylon (42nd Games), Cecelia Mog (60th Games)

 **District 9:** Mizar Aldjoy (1st Games), Gwenith Rosebud (13th Games), Teff Withers (28th Games), Laurel Flamsteel (36th Games), Tabbock Summers (43rd Games), Trevy Vex (Escaped 55th Games)

 **District 10:** Stallion March (26th Games), Lammy Phyronix (40th Games), Pasture Gallows (59th Games)

 **District 11:** Bear Redfoot (15th Games), Seeder Howell (33rd Games), Chaff Mitchell (45th Games)

 **District 12:** Duke Saint-Rose (6th Games), Haymitch Abernathy (50th Games)


	63. Enobaria Golding

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Hunger Games. They belong to Suzanne Collins.

 **Note:** Time for another canon, another career and, after a fairly notable absence, the first tribute from Two in quite a while. I'll admit, perhaps it's on me that my way of ordering the victors left the lattermost Games without many District Two tributes. Oh well, nothing to be done about to now… except tell the tale of Enobaria AKA Tooth Lady AKA That Bitch. Whatever your feelings on her, I feel the women has potential… which, as it basically becoming my catchphrase, I feel was a tad underused in canon. So, time for me to fill in a few blanks and see where the madness takes us. Let's begin!

* * *

"So, you said she was stung," Katniss repeated. "What do you mean by that? Is that literal?"

"Literal," Peeta confirmed. "Her arena had a few pretty nasty mutts in it with these stinger tails, right. Well, Enobaria got stung by one."

Katniss paused to consider this. "And we're quite sure she's not just a ghost?"

"Yes, quite sure," Peeta said, a grim and tiny smile on his face. "She entered the Games, if I recall it right, as a spoiled brat. Think Glimmer, but multiplied by… maybe seven? After the sting, well, she was never quite the same after that."

"Honestly, I'm less amazed over the change and more amazed that she didn't get killed. Not many tributes can survive a mutt attack. Least of all a 'stinger'," Katniss shuddered at the thought. "Let me guess… that tribute whose throat she bit out… that happened after she was stung?"

Peeta could only give a weak nod. The pair stood in silence, looking down at the face of the only career they knew with certainty was alive.

* * *

 **62** **nd** **Annual Hunger Games**

 **Name:** Enobaria Golding

 **Gender:** Female

 **District:** 2

 **Age:** 18

 **Kills:** 9

* * *

It's not easy being a maid for the richest families in District Two.

It's harder being a maid for the Golding family.

It's hardest of all being Enobaria's maid, but that's the only job that I was able to get. Not many good jobs exist in Two for those who lack muscle, money or a bloodlust for the Games. Not when that bitch Olga is running the district, practically more than the mayor is!

It wouldn't be so bad if Enobaria's family had anything resembling respect for other people. Alas, they have none. Certainly not for me or the rest of their staff. It's always 'work harder or else Malachite' or 'we'll send you back to the streets if you can't work faster Malachite'. I'm sure that Enobaria deliberately makes more mess to ensure I get no breaks.

That girl, I've hated her ever since I started working here. I was lucky enough to age out of the reaping bowl last year, but she still has one more to go. I can't help but feel almost giddy about that.

Enobaria got chosen to be the tribute, her combat abilities being far and away the best of everybody at the academy this year. That's a twenty three out of twenty four chance she'll be dead, and a certain chance that she'll take several hits along the way no matter what. Maybe enough to beat some manners into her.

I don't like wishing for the death of another, I really don't. But, why logical reason is there for me to care for somebody who strikes her staff and beat the maid who held this job before me with a can opener? No reason at all.

Just one more hour and the reaping will start. Just one hour and she'll be out of my hair for a while. I won't have any time off of working, but at least without that spoiled brat it won't be quite so bad as before. Her parents have a whole different set of maids to shout at anyway.

She enters the room when I'm almost done cleaning it. Just as she always does she overturns a few chairs and empties out the contents of a drawer. The heiress of the Golding family sends a snooty, cold sneer my way. Just the same as any other day, really.

"Better clean that up Malachite," Enobaria says, haughty as ever.

"I'll get right on it," I say, moving to pick up some of the fallen jewels from inside the drawer.

"Better not steel those, peasant," Enobaria adds, faking me out with a punch. Gets me every time that does – nobody knows when the punch is fake or will actually make contact. "My father would have you ran out of Two and off to Twelve if you dared do anything of the sort."

"Yes Enobaria," I say, my tone neutral.

"I'll be winning the Games soon. That means I'll be a victor and among the elite of humanity," her eyes almost sparkle at the thought of all this, nevermind how much blood of others she'll have to spill for this to happen. "You know what'd make you?"

"The maid of a victor?" I guess, putting the draw back into place.

I'm sent falling on my ass as Enobaria shoves me down. "Not even that, you'll be the same peasant you've always been. You'll never be anything better. You don't belong with the rich and the beautiful."

Enobaria eventually leaves to dress herself for the reaping, snootily laughing all the way. Her words hurt, sure, but they cannot hurt anymore than just being me. At this point I'm used to all of it – in essence it's like watching her perform the same script over and over, just with a few small variations.

So, basically just a typical episode of Fiona and Lawrence.

If Enobaria wins… she's right, nothing changes. I could quit the job, but what will I do then? I have no family to go to, no back-up job waiting for me. Hunger fucks with your mind and I've no intent to return to that sort of a life.

I just have to hope she dies and that I might be able to swipe a few gems when nobody is looking. The shady merchants down in the quarries aren't the kind to ask questions when offered good items. They just hand over the money and that's that.

It's not long until the room is spotless again. I hear Enobaria leaving the manor with her parents, the three of them all having a smug chat together over how Enobaria will do fine and break Two's losing streak. If you ask me the reasons behind the losing streak are why Enobaria got the role of tribute to begin with.

Two's had a plague going on ever since the games where that naked girl from Six won the Games. It was only affected select areas at first - just enough to take a few lives and remove two dozen at best from the academies – but since then it's been affected the quality of life somewhat and taking away lots of good cadets from Machete Ridge. Our tributes get far, but not far enough. They've died every year since Lyme won.

Enobaria's strong, but I don't think she's as strong as the tributes we'd have if not for the plague. The Capitol claims they know the source of the issue now and are working on a cure in their labs, but I'm not so sure how much I believe that. Then again, I'm out of reaping age and I'm firmly neutral on the Games. It's not my issue.

I just want Enobaria to lose. I allow myself the time to turn on the TV and watch the reaping live, seeing how she volunteers and smugly struts her way to the stage, acting like she owns the place. The powerful boy, Zion, isn't much less arrogant. But really, I don't mind if he wins.

I don't mind if somebody from Twelve wins. Better them than Enobaria.

* * *

I don't get much of a chance to watch any of the going-ons of the Games in the days leading to the opening bloodbath. I have too much work to be getting on with. I don't mind though, not when Enobaria's absence is making my job a whole lot quieter and easy to get along with.

I sometimes overhear her parents talking to their fellow noble friends, always talking up Enobaria and how she's going to win easily. How she'll beat the hillbilly's kill record, how she'll win even faster than Chassis did.

I wonder if all the other parents of dead tribute from our district thought the same sorts of things before their children were killed.

Every so often I've been able to catch up on things, just a few minutes of TV at a time, and it seems that Enobaria is the joint strongest tribute of the year. Apparently she's tied with the boy from One, Sunstone, for the moment. I'm not sure if that makes them contenders for the crown or obvious threats, but who can predict anything in the arena?

The audience never gets to see what happens in the training centre, but every so often the interview let slip enough little details for us at home to get an idea of what's going on. Enobaria's the leader of the career pack and apparently is bullying outliers just like she bullies me. Maybe worse as at least she's probably not gonna try to kill me, if she wins that is. The Capitol love her.

Outside Enobaria being unusually snooty and spoiled for a Two tribute – apparently it's more common of a One tribute – other little details catch my attention; the girl from Three apparently built a drone back home and used it to prank peacekeepers, the boy from Five gets into bar fights as a hobbie, the girl from Six claims her ex-boyfriend Titus cannot see her post-Games when she wins as he tried to bite her… weird. Anyway, other than that the boy from Eleven is blind and the girl from Twelve tried to hang herself in the training centre.

Just a normal year then.

When the scores are shown after a few days go by it's not a surprise to me that Enobaria manages an eleven. It's no surprise either that the boy from Eleven only scored a one.

It is a surprise, though, that the boy from Eight scored a nine. What's his secret?

No business of mine, that's what, though if his secret gets Enobaria killed I'll owe him a favour.

* * *

The interview… the interview was awful. It was mandatory viewing, so I had to stand at the back of the room and watch the TV with the rest of the hired help while Enobaria's parents sat on the sofa, simpering and awww'ing over their young murderer-to-be as she entered the stage in an outfit that looked like it had already been covered in a tribute's blood.

Caesar greeted Enobaria charmingly as he would for any tribute, and it was really all downhill from there. So much so that I left the room as soon as the interview ended. Mandatory doesn't mean I have to watch all of it, just a section of it. Nobody came after me to drag me back, at least.

At first Enobaria just spoke of her rich background, how she thought the outliers were pitiful and weak, how obvious her victory was… the basic stuff you'd expect from a tribute who has been spoiled rotten her entire life.

Then she moved on from mocking the tributes and began to start mocking _**me**_. Talking of me being lazy, useless, some bumbling fool who needs Enobaria to help me tie my shoes… everything she can think of to make me sound like a witless moron. But the worst part? The part that gets my blood boiling?

She turns to the camera, puts on a simpering little smirk and lightly waves. At me. She's so assured of her own chances she used an entire third of her interview to mock me, for no real reason than because she can.

I can't wait for this girl to die. It's hard to busy myself on my tasks of the evening, especially with radio reports of the Capitol referring to me as 'Moronic Malachite'.

"Fuck you Enobaria!" I snarl, punching a framed picture of her.

* * *

The arena is certainly something to look at. Something grim, that is. It looks like a literal warzone, with barbed wire fences scattered around, empty watchtowers, muddy trenches and even two immobile tanks. This, the heavy rain and how cold the arena is are enough to have several outliers crying and at least two of them soil themselves. Ick.

Enobaria just looks more eager than she already was. She looks like her birthday has come early, a wide grin on her spoiled face. But, she soon composes herself and reverts back to a professional look. Like a proper lady about to commit murder the good old fashioned way.

I wish I didn't have to watch this, but it's mandatory viewing. Besides… maybe she'll die in the bloodbath. It's not unheard of for girls from Two to die so quickly.

The gong rings and it's quickly apparent that luck is not on my side just yet. Enobaria doesn't even take a scratch at the carnage goes on around the cornucopia, people running all over the place and several of them dying awful deaths.

Enobaria smashed a mace on the head of the tiny boy from Ten.

She slashes open the throat of the boy from Three.

She chops off a leg of the boy from Six and then stomps on his face a dozen times.

It's sick, utterly sick. She maintains a cold, slightly smug look on her face the entire time. It's clear the tributes are nothing to her, not people really. I have my doubts she thinks of Zion as a person either.

In the end fourteen tributes are killed in the opening bloodbath, five of them by Enobaria's hand. Her alliance stays intact, all four of them sporting no serious wounds, while the six outliers scatter away into the warzone.

I doubt the bloodied girl from Seven is going to get far. Poor thing.

Enobaria takes charge quickly, ordering around her allies to sort the supplies and do as she says. She doesn't just order them, she lectures them and it goes on and on for several minutes. She must use the words 'upper class', 'social status' and 'perfect face' at least seventeen times in four minutes.

Even Sunstone seems annoyed by the whole display. The Ones don't seem much better, exchanging looks of irritation as they separate the weapons into different piles depending on their types and sizes.

If I'm lucky then Enobaria might get herself backstabbed, or worse, by the third day. A maid can dream.

"Honestly, you peasants are working even slower than Malachite normally does!"

Correction, if I'm lucky she'll be betrayed within one hour. Little brat!

* * *

By day three only eight tributes are still alive. The girl from Seven didn't make it to the first anthem and the boy from Eleven, who ran away from the start, ended up running off steep drop and breaking his legs. The girl from Three found him soon after that.

But now, the careers have found the boy from Eight. I watch, amazed, as he leaves the Ones gasping and wheezing distantly behind him. Sunstone soon falls behind as well. It's down to just Enobaria chasing him… come on boy, throw a knife back at her!

He's like a ninja, making all kinds of acrobatic leaps and flips to throw Enobaria off his trail. She stays after him, of course, but he's always pulling ahead one inch at a time.

Or he was until he sees a pair of nasty glowing eyes from within an old wrecked airplane's cargo hold and turns around. Enobaria tackled him down, looking at him like how one might look at a pet who has been behaving badly.

"Any last words? I'm gonna make this one hurt. You causes us quite a lot of hassle, running around for so long like that," Enobaria scowls, as of offended that she had to run and strain her 'perfect leg muscles.

The boy seems to accept his fate. "Might wanna look behind you."

I'm left staring in awe while Mr and Mrs Golding scream in horror from somewhere else in the manor. From the cargo hold a scorpion mutt emerges, partly covered in metal armour. It's stinger goes right into Enobaria's shoulder and leaves her writhing and thrashing around.

The boy from Eight tries to run away, but that's when Sunstone finally catches up and tosses a spear through his neck. The sight of the scorpion has Sunstone only more focused on fighting and throwing spears. One, two and three, they all skewer into the mutt.

The mutt flees and Enobaria rises, but it's clear that she's not looking so good. The area around the sting wound is pale, sickly and starting to have the veins turn black. Her eyes are vacant and she's starting to drool.

She might actually die!

"Enobaria, are you alright?" Sunstone asks.

Enobaria rasps out something unintelligible and takes off running like a maniac deeper into the arena. Not five minutes and it seems like she's going crazy. Well, see if I care. Insane tribute almost never win the Games. Maybe it'd be enough for the gamemakers to rig a trap onto her to ensure she won't win?

Caesar and Claudius comment on this turn of events, watching as Enobaria soon tracks down and cuts up the boy from Four. Apparently the stinger, generally intended to immobilise prey or at least send them into a fit, is reacting to her blood type in an unusual way. If anything it's trading her sanity for combat ability. Neither know what to make of it, but both agree the spoiled brat Enobaria had been is unlikely to come back until a doctor can look at her.

* * *

It's honestly creepy watching Enobaria fall into complete insanity, even with how the Games are clearly almost over.

Trading sanity for power was an apt way to put it. Enobaria's having no trouble murdering all in her path, even while she's frothing at the mouse, snarling like an animal and her eyes darting around at random. The girl from Three stood no chance at all.

Mr and Mrs Golding are crying and screaming around the clock, horrified at what has become of their daughter. They don't see this beast as their 'precious little girl', but if you ask me Enobaria was always a beast. It's just a bit more obvious now.

Sunstone died when the scorpion mutt came back for round two and, this time, he had no spears left. Four stings and it was all over for him. The boy from One died when the boy from Seven, in a fit of desperation, managed to punch him in the jaw and throw him back into a barbed wire fence. He got entangled and from there… well, turns out the butt of a knife is an effective weapon in its own right.

Part of me feels resigned to how Enobaria is gonna surely come back and I'll be her maid once more. No real change… but with her reputation likely to sink amongst the nobles after how far she has fallen, perhaps she might shut up for once. Can she claim to be superior after spending the night humping a tank?

The girl from One takes down the girl from Eleven as nightfall begins to descend upon the arena. I flinch when the boy from Seven sneaks up behind her, an axe brought down upon the girl's skull. It's like watching a melon being chopped in half.

I try to busy myself on folding clothing, but how can I focus on anything but the old TV in the laundry room? Enobaria just tackled the boy from Twelve to the ground and brought down the knife. One, twice, ten times, a hundred times.

She's more like an animal than anything resembling a person. She's filthy, she's covered in blood, she's hardly able to form words and her eyes are vicious, like one of the zombies from the Thirty Second Games. A far cry from who she once was.

She's not so different from the psychopath who won the Forty First Games, now that I think about it.

And, somehow, she's in the final two. There's still a chance she could die, but I know in my heart this isn't going to be the case. The boy from Seven is tough, but she's still fifteen and untrained. What chance has he got against a beast like Enobaria.

None at all. She manages to find him about an hour after the anthem. One moment they're fighting, the next moment she has the poor boy pinned underneath her.

I'm forced to cover my mouth, my cheeks turning greed when I see what she does next. It's horrifying, she's a beast!

She bites into the boy's throat and tears it out, his blood staining her teeth and face. He drops, choking and gurgling as blood pours from the wound. Enobaria doesn't even seem to care, content to just snarl and roar to the cloudy sky. Even when the cannon fires and the trumpets ring out she doesn't seem to care.

Caesar and Claudius assure the audience that Enobaria will be treated right away and she'll be back to her normal sense once the post-Games interview begins. I find myself hoping that she cannot be fixed. This animalistic, horrifying look she has? It's a perfect look, as it's who she was on the inside the whole time.

From outside I can hear the thunderous cheering coming from across the district. Most of the population here adore the Games, seeing them as a wonderful contest of honour and strength. To them it won't matter that Enobaria went crazy and animalistic. She's a victor, our first in a long time.

I can't help flinching as I finally finish folding all of the clothes. Perhaps Enobaria was right, maybe things will be going right back to how they were before. Am I to be her maid forever? Is there truly no escape, least of all now that she's a victor?

It's hard not to cry at the thought of this. I thought I'd finally be free of Enobaria!

Her parents, their cheering loud enough to have my ears throbbing, surely aren't concerned with Enobaria's behaviour. How can they be when they cheer for a murderer? They'll only continue to enable her.

I guess I should get ready for whatever awaits in the victor village.

* * *

It's been a strange week ever since Enobaria came back. Actually, maybe strange is the wrong word. Maybe harrowing is a better way to put it? Things happened what I never thought would happen.

I'm at the doors of Enobaria's house in the victor village, bags packed and ready to leave her for good. Lyme said she knew of people who may appreciate my more rebellious thoughts – well, rebellious by the standards of Two. She's on record for not liking the Games either, so I'm inclined to trust her over anybody else.

Not like I have anything left for me here. I don't see things being able to sink lower than being Enobaria's maid. Which brings me back to where I am now, at the door with Enobaria kneeling just a few feet away from me, a broken shell and close to another meltdown.

It's crazy to think about how it came to this in such a short amount of time. That mutt really messed everything up, not just for Enobaria but also her parents, Olga and apparently the Capitol to some degree. They don't like it when they aren't in clear control and things happen that make them look fallible. They don't like losing what would've been a loyal career victor.

Turns out the poison didn't quite work on Enobaria the way it should have. She went crazy, but that's the thing… she went crazy and they have been unable to fully put her back to how she was. For reasons I can't claim to understand, the antidote does not work on people whose blood type is AB Negative.

Enobaria held together for most of the interview and then suffered a breakdown, having to be taken off camera. Since coming back she's melted down at least twice a day, going from prim and proper to animalistic and beastly. Apparently the Capitol citizens like that sort of thing – lots of them think she should embrace being a 'wild child' and change her teeth to look like fangs. That final kill keeps getting replayed.

I got scratched in two of her meltdowns, but compared to her parents I got pretty lucky. All it took was them being too close when she went psycho in the kitchen two days ago. They were there, the knife ended up being held in Enobaria's hand… they were dead pretty soon after that.

I packed my packs as quick as I could and waited for the right moment to run for it. Like I said, Lyme has something in mind for me. Whatever it is must be better than… _this_.

The girl I served who once tormented me and did all manner of other things is nothing like the smug girl who mocked me at the interviews. She's crying, she's on her knees, she's pleading for me to stay.

It's pathetic.

"Please, don't go," Enobaria makes a sound that's like a blend between a broken sob and a searing growl. "Malachite, you're all I have left, please… my parents… all the other nobility and friends I had… you're the only one who hasn't ditched me."

I could say a great many things to her. About the way she attacked other staff and occasionally attacked me… how she never treated me as more than a sort of toy to be messed around with… how she was threatening me mere hours before the reaping… she's not worth any of it.

"Goodbye Enobaria. Have fun with the other victors, I guess," is all I van bring myself to say.

I leave, shutting the door behind me. The broken, vicious noble is left all alone in the dark within… fitting. The darkness is where most monsters like to be.

I'm swiftly over to meet with Lyme, ready to put the past few years behind me. Maybe Enobaria will recover from that brain-addling sting, maybe she won't, either way it's out of my life now.

It's time to start all over again and this time end up as something more than a whipping girl for a noble.

I'd expected factory work or, if I were lucky, sorting mail in a safe and only moderately dirty office. What Lyme tells me has my eyes widening, a sense of wonder filling my mind.

Just how much has been going on outside my life as a maid?

"How would you like to live in Thirteen and help build weapons?"

* * *

"I never really worked out if Enobaria was on our side in the end, even for a little bit," Peeta admitted. "Like, did we ever see eye to eye at… literally any time?"

"I'm not so sure we did," Katniss replied. "Well, we have the rest of our lives to end up on the same side. We'll see how things go at the party."

The pair continued to slowly talk down the street. It wasn't particularly long at all before they came to the next face on the street. Katniss couldn't quite bring herself to look the imprinted face directly in the eye.

The boy who looked at her was a dashing young man, one with a winning sort of smile and eyes full of life. His hair was short, but styled and very tidy. Nothing looked at all out of place about him – only perfection was presented to any who would look upon the face.

"Gloss," Peeta said, a tone of regret in his voice. "If we'd known now what we know then, if we'd just been able to talk to him…"

Katniss could only let out a depressed sigh, ever so regretful. Hindsight was such a cruel thing. So too were should haves and would haves. Actions to be taken if they had known Gloss, and Cashmere's, stories before they'd been thrown into the quell.

"The Lord twins went through so much," Peeta sighed to himself. "Best we can do is ensure they're remembered."

* * *

There we are, Enobaria's tale! I'll be honest, of the four careers in Catching Fire she's the one who stood out to me the least (why do not live in a timeline where Brutus survived tbh?), but I did at least want to try and give her a decent story – like I said at the start, I saw a bit of potential for something more. We know she has her fangs thanks to her 'iconic kill' and that she's kind of wild and brutal… but that's more or less it. I feel like using the 'outsider POV' made things a little more unique than standard format would've allowed for. I liked writing how Enobaria used to be a far cry from the savage we know her as and how it was a mutt that changed her from the proper, snooty girl she was in a time long left behind. Hope you guys liked my interpretation of her. But now, we look on to the 63rd Games and the first of the Lord twins. Just what kind of a story does Gloss have in store for us…?

* * *

 **Stats**

 **District 1:** Peridot Gaudy (8th Games), Crystal McCree (14th Games), Bronze Marley (19th Games), Crown Martins (24th Games), Dollar Dettwieller (32nd Games), Mascara Court (41st Games), Platinum Twist (44th Games)

 **District 2:** Baron Overwhill (4th Games), Runa Peace (7th Games), Olga Machete (10th Games), Rook Valiant (17th Games), Boulder Atherston (20th Games), Vercingetorix Carnby (25th Games), Dragon Batofel (27th Games), Rhyder Overwhill (39th Games), Mercy Gregor (46th Games), Brutus Gunn (49th Games), Lyme Rabe (51st Games), Enobaria Golding (62nd Games)

 **District 3:** Honorius Perthshire (5th Games), Pi Orbit (22nd Games), Beetee Latier (37th Games), Wiress Plummer (47th Games), Yohan Fairbane (58th Games)

 **District 4:** Museida Selkirk (3rd Games), Mags Flanagan (11th Games), Tide Luther (23rd Games), Librae Ogilvy (35th Games), Anchor Paddock (52nd Games)

 **District 5:** Shunt Gaspar (12th Games), Isobel Sparks (18th Games), Crimson Flanders (29th Games), Porter Tripp (38th Games), Neon Erg (48th Games), Wattzon Holmes (55th Games), Arendellian Spinner III (57th Games)

 **District 6:** Chassis Macalister (31st Games), Bentley Corduroy (54th Games), Porsche London (56th Games)

 **District 7:** Pliny Aransio (2nd Games), Fir Buzz (9th Games), Jack Tylos (21st Games), Snag Nakamura (34th Games), Blight Jordan (53rd Games), Logger Barlow (61st Games)

 **District 8:** Woof Casino (16th Games), Paige Murphy (30th Games), Spool Nylon (42nd Games), Cecelia Mog (60th Games)

 **District 9:** Mizar Aldjoy (1st Games), Gwenith Rosebud (13th Games), Teff Withers (28th Games), Laurel Flamsteel (36th Games), Tabbock Summers (43rd Games), Trevy Vex (Escaped 55th Games)

 **District 10:** Stallion March (26th Games), Lammy Phyronix (40th Games), Pasture Gallows (59th Games)

 **District 11:** Bear Redfoot (15th Games), Seeder Howell (33rd Games), Chaff Mitchell (45th Games)

 **District 12:** Duke Saint-Rose (6th Games), Haymitch Abernathy (50th Games)


	64. Gloss Lord

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Hunger Games. They belong to Suzanne Collins.

 **Note:** Here we are, another canon and another career. So, Gloss, what do we really know about him? He's close as can be with Cashmere, he's really powerful and he killed Wiress… that's more or less it, honestly? In other words, as always it was just enough for me to make a story out of! Much as with Enobaria, we saw how the character ended up… but how did they start? How did Gloss get there and become a career victor? The answer may or may not surprise you. Hope ya'll enjoy!

* * *

Katniss silently gazed down at Gloss' imprinted face on the ground, guilt filling her facial features.

"They say hindsight is twenty-twenty," Katniss murmured. "If Gloss had come to me and told me what I know now… I'd have assumed he was lying. I would've assumed just about all the career tributes were lying. I was so close minded."

"We were a long way home from Twelve. We'd only seen what the Capitol let us see," Peeta assured her. "We know now, that's the important thing."

"It doesn't change the fact I kill him," Katniss replied, one hand over her face. "I shot him with an arrow. Right in the heart in just a second."

"What else could have been done?" Peeta asked. Katniss' silence seemed to be enough of an answer. "I agree… plenty of other things."

The pair from Twelve stood in silence, paying their own personal respects to Gloss. Truthfully, once upon a time in a dystopia that was ever so unfair… he'd not been all that different from Katniss.

* * *

 **63** **rd** **Annual Hunger Games**

 **Name:** Gloss Lord

 **Gender:** Male

 **District:** 1

 **Age:** 17

 **Kills:** 6

* * *

If somebody were to think of District One then they would probably think of wealthy socialites and the elite among elites. Rich people who wanted for nothing, except perhaps a second helping of caviar with their morning toast. People like the long dead families of what used to be the Flawless Estate, survived only by Harp Victory.

Most would not think of those in poverty, least of all homeless and living on the streets. District One did have poor people, but most were not poor in the same way people in District Twelve were. They normally had homes and at least one and a half meals a day, sometimes even a job that didn't pay only in food stamps.

The Capitol did its best, after all, to hide the existence of those forced to live on the streets from the eyes of other districts. It prevented inter-district cohesion a whole lot better when District One appeared to be a wonderful place to live, no poor people in sight.

Gloss Lord and his twin sister Cashmere would beg to differ. Homeless people existed and they were among them.

Neither had ever met their parents, having been alone in the world aside from each other for as far back as they could remember. They had no money, almost no food, no place to call a home aside a few boxes behind a particularly nasty gem factory and, to top it all off, they were forced to wear rags.

They had pretty faces under it all, but the district was not inclined to care when they were otherwise at the absolute bottom of the pecking order.

It was a week or so before reaping day when Gloss made the decision that would forever change the lives of himself and his sister.

Gloss was the de-facto leader between the Lord twins. Every action, every word, every single decision he made… all of it was done to better the life of his sister. When all was said and done he did not care what became of him – he'd long given up on himself at the tender age of ten – but he wasn't ready to give up on Cashmere just yet.

He was on his way back to their 'home', not that such a word could describe their boxes, with stolen bread hidden under his rags when he saw the news.

Even the pain inducing hunger didn't prevent him from having keen senses and an awareness of what was going on around him. The television in the window of a local tech store was displaying a news report. Most of it was stuff that he gave no particular care about – Capitol trends, rebellion crackdowns, executions for those found to be treasonous – but there was one thing that had him pause.

The weather report.

Gloss always needed to know when it was rainy or cold. Planning ahead for such things was the only way to survive being homeless, especially when District One tended to be the coldest of Panem's districts. He could handle rain, mostly, and sometimes the cold didn't reduce him and Cashmere to tears.

This time… was different. The incredibly advanced weather prediction technology of the Capitol was able to confirm weather months in advance and, with zero room for error, had confirmed that the coldest winter in decades was on its way. Staying indoors was the only way to avoid frostbite.

Gloss shuddered. He knew there was no way they would ever survive such weather. They'd freeze to death before December was even halfway over. Sure, they could try and find a new place to live, but in all likelihood any slightly passable places would be claimed already or patrolled frequently by Peacekeepers.

Gloss was aware of their habit of shooting the homeless on sight.

"Shit… shit, shit, shit…" Gloss went from walking to running. "Fuck it all, what do we do!?"

Homeless as Gloss may have been, he was not weak. Keeping himself active and occupied had helped him become quite the strong, swift young man. Alas, not strong enough to survive winter. Only strong enough to win a few dozen street fights since he was thirteen and outrun peacekeepers half as many times as that.

On his way back home Gloss passed a group of teenagers – all well off and in cadet uniforms. Certainly youths training for the Games from Gaudy High – and, though they paid no mind to the ragged teenager, Gloss certainly kept his ears open for anything useful they may have been saying.

All they spoke of was the reaping that loomed one week away.

It gave Gloss the idea of what he could do to avoid himself and his sister wasting away over the horrible winter. The only idea that had any chance of working out.

The problem would be getting Cashmere to agree to it.

* * *

The pair had argued long into the night. It all started after they ravenously wolfed down the stolen bread and Gloss explained his last gambit to her. The one thing that would ensure they'd never go hungry ever again. The one way they'd both survive the winter.

"I'm volunteering for the Games."

"Are you crazy?! Gloss, our lives are hard enough when we're together… if you were gone… no, you hear me? No!"

"It's this or we both freeze to death in a few months! If there was any other way for us to survive I wouldn't do it."

"There must be another way, there must!"

There was not. Cashmere came up with a hundred ideas for what they could do instead of Gloss volunteering to risk his life for them both. Gloss provided at least three reasons for why each idea would not work.

It was win the Games or die, whether in the arena or out of it.

Neither twin said much that night. They were similarly silent for the next few days. Gloss was too focused on how he would win the Games that his district had failed to win for nearly twenty years and how his death would ensure Cashmere's own. Cashmere was too focused on fear for his beloved brother's life and all the terrible ways he could meet his end… and how she'd not be there to say goodbye if the worst did happen.

She hardly even thought about how his death would seal her date.

It was the night before the reaping when, while in their boxes and trying to bare the rain shower filling the night outside, Cashmere finally spoke.

"Good luck Gloss," Cashmere moved to give her dear twin a hug. "Please come home safe…"

"I will," Gloss said, as if such an outcome was nothing but certain.

"How can you be so sure?" Cashmere asked, huddling closer to Gloss as a roar of thunder boomed across the sky.

"Because I don't even want to think about what will happen if I'm wrong," Gloss replied, unable to hide the scared look in his eyes.

* * *

The reapings in District One were, for all intents and purposes, a formality. There had always been volunteers at the ready ever since Crown was reaped due to Kingsey chickening out. Indeed, there were always multiple back-up volunteers. Nobody would ever face the arena if they were truly not ready for it.

Anybody could volunteer if they wanted to, of course, but the fact was that nobody _did_. Nobody saw a reason to mess with the academy's rules and fine tuned systems. Their first victor Peridot, now quite elderly in her seat on the stage, loved her district… enough to harshly punish anybody who dared mess with the precarious balance that One hung in.

Whether it was wise Peridot, foul Bronze, chatty Crown, oddball Dollar or soft spoken Platinum they all agreed that letting the role of tribute go to the one picked by the academy was the best idea. It simply made the most sense and why mess with something that was not broken?

Gloss did not care for any of this. His long term survival required that such a longstanding system of his district be broken at least once. He could only hope that, whoever his mentor was, they'd be cooperative and give him the leg-up they were supposed to.

"Fantasticus Keir!" chirped the escort, obviously dressed as a 3D Printer. It was only the latest in fashion, after all.

The boy, some stocky lad from the fifteen year olds section, didn't take a step before Gloss called out the sacred words a fraction of a second before the chosen volunteer could do so.

"I volunteer as tribute!"

The square went silent, save for a few gasps and the snarling of the boy whose chance of glory Gloss had stolen. The cameras centred on Gloss as he confidently made his way to the stage, dressed up in a fine suit.

The finest suit he'd been able to steal in the small time frame before the reaping. Rags would simply not do.

Gloss gave a charming introduction to the escort, claimed himself to be the sort who 'makes the best of any opportunity offered' and even tried to make a pass at his district partner. The girl, Rainbow, could only look at him in annoyance.

Gloss just kept a confident grin on his face. If this deadly plan was to work he couldn't let the cameras see any weakness. Not a single bit of his fear could show.

He just hoped Cashmere could keep herself together over in the girl's section of the square.

She didn't. Not fully.

She similarly failed to stop herself from weeping when she came to say goodbye to Gloss within the judgment building, his only visitor. There was so much to be said, so much they should have done in the hour they had left.

A silent, strong embrace would have to do. It was all either of them could manage, aside four words from Gloss.

"I'll be home soon."

* * *

Gloss could only sigh when dinner came to an end on the train. Of _course_ the male tribute was going to be mentored by Bronze that year, why would his luck allow for anything else? Bronze had taken one look at him and, while admitting he was nowhere near as bad as Crown nor as seemingly feeble as Crystal had been, he was still not worth his time. Bronze would only do the bare minimum his job enforced him to do, nothing else.

Gloss was gonna have to go it alone, not that he minded such a thing. He'd been alone for basically all of his life anyway. No parents, no distant relatives, no friends… well, he had Cashmere. But she was only one person, he could make it without her.

Being without her turned out to be harder than he expected. The ride on the train was the worse night of his life. But, if it spared Cashmere from freezing to death, so be it. He'd bare far worse than this and he knew he was going to have to sooner than later anyway.

He sat with his back against his bedroom door, trying to keep himself calm and his ears alert. Any scraps of information from those still awake were scraps he anted to hear. Anything may be the vital clue to save his life. Alas, it was just the victors talking about himself and Rainbow, stuff he pretty much knew already.

Peridot was neutral, torn between being a little annoyed the system had been broken but admitting that Gloss seemed like he had skills in him. He gave her a good gut feeling. Bronze felt the opposite, feeling that it was obvious that Gloss was hiding something – his suit still had the damn price tag attached and didn't exactly fit him. Crown liked him better than the chosen volunteer and chattered over Gloss' mysteriousness. Dollar had very little to add, but claimed it was beyond obvious that Gloss was a born survivor just like herself. Platinum thought he was nice enough, but her loyalty had to go to her assigned tribute first and, as it happened, she and Rainbow were getting along really well.

It was hours before sleep finally claimed Gloss for the night, feelings of sorrow and like half of himself had been taken away never quite leaving him alone.

"All for you Cashmere…" Gloss whispered to himself. "I'll be a career. I'll be anything I have to be. All for you…"

* * *

The parade had gone well, far better than Gloss could have hoped for. Being dressed in a golden tunic and more rubies than he thought possible for one outfit to contain had the crowd cheering his name. Flexing and putting on what he hoped was a fearsome look practically doubled the cheering.

He was dubbed 'lean and mean' by the Capitol crowds, none of them able to comprehend the fact his lean physique was due to sheer hunger. The Capitol citizens couldn't even figure out what starvation was to begin with, so Gloss hadn't expected anything else.

Training was where Gloss got the first true test of his resolve. He knew that if he wanted to stand the slightest chance in the arena he needed to join the most powerful alliance of them all – the career pack.

Having three members of the pack to convince would be one thing. But, with this being another year where District Four had offered up two murderous volunteers, Gloss had his work cut out for him. Rainbow felt moody towards him, both Xantor and Cindra of Two were sadistic beasts, Galley from Four was a hulking beast standing almost seven feet tall and his female counterpart Submerge was one powerful gymnast.

Gloss tried not to let his nerves show.

"What do you want?" Rainbow asked him, noticing that he'd moved to stand with the rest of what would surely become the yearly career alliance.

"I'm part of the alliance, aren't I?" Gloss replied, shrugging. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but hasn't the male from One always been a member of the career pack ever since the first quell? The only exception I remember is Crown and, well, seems like he did alright for himself."

"Go it alone then," Rainbow scoffed.

"I'd rather not. He got lucky. I'd rather not put my fate in luck's hands," Gloss looked away for a moment, cold. "I've never had enough of it."

"You want in?" Xantor looked Gloss over, appraisingly. "Well, the Capitol is right about the lean part."

"So? There have been careers shorter than I am," Gloss replied, shrugging. "Some of them from your district."

"Okay, true," Cindra admitted. "But what can you do?"

"Kill," Gloss said, simply. "Can you?"

"Oh, you better believe I can," Cindra replied, cold like snow.

"You never attended the career academy back home," Rainbow added, already suspicious.

"Didn't need to," Gloss said, smirking. "C'mon, let me train with you. Call it a trial run, you'll see I'm worth having around."

The pair from Four both nodded, neither minding this idea. "We're in."

Eventually even Cindra and Rainbow relented. The burly girl from Two shrugged, knowing democracy outvoted her. "Fine, cool. But screw up and you're out."

"Fair enough," Gloss replied, cracking his knuckles. "So, throwing axes first?"

* * *

Gloss had done enough on day one of training to be allowed into the career pack. Of course, that was only the start of what was sure to be the hardest month of his already hard life. He needed to become more like his sadistic allies _and_ not lose himself completely in the process.

Training with throwing axes, maces and generally working out was one thing, and a hard thing at that.

Joining in on bullying the outliers was another thing, and one that Gloss had not been looking forward to doing.

But between that and losing his place in the alliance Gloss sucked it up and joined in. Not like they were going to be alive a month from then anyway, and he may as well do whatever kept himself safe in the meantime. For the start of the mockery he stood at the back, content to just throw his best snide grins and intimidating growls towards the prey.

Alas, he couldn't escape the fact his own turn to lead the 'hunt' was coming soon. Still, if he couldn't mock them he couldn't kill them. Gloss just forced himself to accept it was practise for the inevitable and to move on.

"How's it feel to have no hope of anything but oblivion in a week?" he called to the tiny boy from Twelve. "We're gonna cut you until all your blood is on the outside and nothing's left of you, not even memories. You're alone!"

The boy was reduced to tears and ran off not long after that. Gloss accepted the bro fist from Xantor and the minor compliment from Rainbow, but otherwise remained passive. It was almost spooky how easy such things had come to him.

Perhaps he could have it in him to kill people and be the last one standing, finally set for life and safe from the winter's fury.

"All for you Cashmere," Gloss whispered while training alone with the throwing axes an hour later.

* * *

Gloss earned a name for himself as a solid contender for the Games ahead, scoring a nine. In terms of pure statistics he was fifth overall, behind Rainbow, the Twos and Galley, but managing to outrank Submerge and all of the outliers.

He earned a second name as the bully of the training centre. He'd lost count of how many of the outliers he'd reduced to tears or at least caused to run away with despair in their eyes. He knew the boy from Twelve had gotten the worst of it, but whatever way it was dressed up Gloss knew that he certainly looked like a sadistic bastard to the other tributes.

So be it. It that kept Cashmere safe then he'd do it again. Not like he hadn't done worse on the streets of One already.

His interview played with the savage angle, mixed with a bit of mysteriousness in regard to his past in One. Gloss was ever so tight lipped about where he'd come from, only saying he'd 'graduated the school of hard knocks with top marks'. The audience absolutely loved it.

The outliers did not. They hated and feared Gloss.

As good as his odds of 4-1 were, Gloss needed time to himself for the last night before the Games. He couldn't sleep and did not want to be in the main room of the District One floor, not when Bronze was watching adult movies with a few women of his harem.

The roof would have to do.

With the elevator unguarded and nobody coming to stop him from riding it to the roof Gloss soon found himself atop the incredibly tall building, gazing out at the district horizon.

He had to admit, it was beautiful.

Far more beautiful than what he was becoming and what he would continue to turn into once the gong rang and the bloodbath began.

"Oh, it's _you_."

Gloss cursed his luck, having a vague idea who that voice belonged to. He had, after all, seen several televised interviews growing up and one such interview was with the owner of the voice, merely six months ago. Gloss was never the sort to forget a voice.

That was why he knew Seeder was behind him before he turned to face her.

"Oh, hi Seeder," Gloss replied, giving the middle aged victor a nod of acknowledgement.

"I'm not even talking to you. I'm going back down," Seeder turned on her heel to leave. "I'm not wasting my time with the latest selfish, arrogant, murderous boy from One of many. Maybe you'll end up like all the boys in your district since Crown have. I can only hope."

"Hey, what the hell?" Gloss got to his feet, particularly pissed. "Hoping for my death? Who do you think you are?"

Seeder just narrowed her eyes. "You've been tormenting every tribute outside your alliance, saving awful things you did not need to say. Who do you think _you_ are?"

Gloss had no instant response to this. It was a few moments before he had any idea what as to what he could say.

"It's that or lose my spot in the alliance. Logically they're going to die anyway," Gloss replied, distant.

"Doesn't make it right," Seeder replied. "You volunteered to be here. You weren't the chosen volunteer either, I overheard that much from Bronze."

"I didn't want to be here," Gloss paused, sighing. "I needed to be here."

"Honestly, I have no idea if that is better or worse," Seeder replied, blank. "How so? What could you need to be here? You didn't volunteer to save somebody and-"

"I did. That's literally the entire reason I'm here," Gloss exhaled deeply. "My sister, Cashmere… this. Everything so far, everything I still have to do… it's for her. It's awful, sure, but the alternative is so much worse."

"How much worse than children being killed in an arena?" Seeder asked.

"Depends who you ask, but I'd say much worse. In One there are poor people, same as any other district. At least, I'd assume so. We're homeless, the pair of us literally live in boxes and live off of stolen bread. How do you think I'm so 'lean and mean', huh?" Gloss sat down again, staring off into the horizon. "It was literally let both of us freeze to death during the winter or me risk my life to win the Games and get us both a warm house. I'll take this over dying in the cold… then again, if it's a tundra arena, perhaps I still will."

It was Seeder's turn to become silent and have no idea what to say. What Gloss said and the sincerity, if not outright vulnerability, in his tone had already began to flip some of her opinion on the boy from One.

"Can't you… live in a care home? District One has those, right?"

Gloss stared out into space, his eyes narrowed into a dark grimace. "Not again. Not after last time. I'm not putting Cashmere through that again."

Seeder didn't push it. She instead moved to sit beside Gloss, letting time pass by until either of them thought of something to say.

"It seems life just isn't fair. Panem just isn't fair," Seeder said, sighing. "I have no idea how Orion thought the Hunger Games would cease rebellion. If anything it's just making people desire a second rebellion even more."

"He was an idiot. He deserved what he got," Gloss said, shrugging. "I'm not really fussed about that. I just want my sister to be safe."

"And yourself too?" Seeder added.

"Honestly, I don't care what becomes of me. I just want Cashmere to be able to have a good life," Gloss admitted. "That's all I want… seems fate was feeling more twisted than normal this year. I mean, trading twenty three lives to assure one life is spared and wants for nothing? What a mad world."

"You know, you might be one of the least greedy and selfish boys from your district I've ever seen. I think only Crown has you beat," Seeder noted. "I'd say best of luck to you Gloss. I hope the best for your sister, but I have tributes to… and, well…"

Gloss idly waved his hand at Seeder. "I get it. Eleven comes first, it only makes sense. You know, if I end up dead… one of your pair winning wouldn't be the worst thing ever. Your district is overdue a victor."

The pair maintained small talk like this for a time before they left for their beds. Seeder partially hoped Gloss would end up winning if her tributes died, and perhaps not lose himself in the process. It would be nice having another man on the inside of District One if all went well.

Gloss thought Seeder seemed like a nice person. They both knew what poverty was, as thus hunger and pain. Gloss wouldn't call it inaccurate to say he felt more like an outlier than a career when all was said and done.

Alas, the Games were looming. He had to become a career whether he liked it or not. Whether Seeder liked it or not. Whether Cashmere liked it or not.

"All for you, Cashmere…"

* * *

The first thing Gloss saw when his launch plate clicked into place was the silver cornucopia gleaming from the sunlight cast upon it. The first thing he smelled was the thick scent of sea salt. The first sound he heard was the light crashing of waves upon a tropical beach.

The arena was a massive tropical island, the cornucopia set upon a beach covered in soft pale sand and everything else deeper within the forest that loomed nearby. The sounds of birds were easy to discern as was the distant breeze cast through the island.

The sounds of sobbing were equally as unmissable. The small boy from Twelve was on the pedestal directly to the right of Gloss' own, scared out of his mind. Gloss blocked off all emotion and played his part well, snarling at the small boy. It was a wonder the miner boy didn't fall off of his pedestal when he recoiled in terror.

That was only the first of many terrible things Gloss knew he'd have to do if he was to make it back home.

Back to Cashmere.

The gong rang and Gloss charged from his pedestal towards the cornucopia. It wasn't remotely hard to reach the horn of plenty mere moments behind Rainbow and the Twos.

It disturbed Gloss to learn that it was similarly easy to throw an axe into the face of the girl from Five. She fell to the ground, her face coated in tears and thick blood, all life within her eyes thoroughly extinguished.

That was merely the first death of the eventual twenty three, with the gruesome deaths of the pair from Nine following moments later. Rainbow and Submerge didn't even flinch as they hacked the pair apart with daggers.

Gloss retrieved his axes and sent one of them right into the back of the skull of the boy from Three. He turned away from his initial target, the boy from Eight, to where Xantor had been tackled to the ground by the boy from Seven.

He made his choice in an instant. Loyalty to the pack would serve him better than letting a big threat die so soon. Gloss ran over, bringing his remaining axe down onto the lumberjack boy's head, killing him near instantly. As the boy slumped over Gloss grasped Xantor's beefy hand and pulled him to his feet.

"Fancy meeting you here like this," Gloss joked.

Xantor couldn't help but laugh. "Thanks mate. I owe you one."

The bloodbath came to an end mere minutes later when the severed head of the boy from Ten made contact with the ground. Gloss hadn't made any further kills in that time, not that he minded. It was getting to be a tough effort to hold back his vomit.

Killing was far, _far_ harder than mockery or savage street fights. The scent of blood that filled the air was horribly noxious, the broken bodies of the twelve dead tributes were terrible to observe and the way Rainbow and Cindra were snickering to each other really rubbed him the wrong way.

Gloss didn't let any of this slip. Outwardly he seemed, by all accounts, completely unaffected by what had just happened.

Rainbow clapped to get everybody's attention. "Nice work guys. Not a single one of us dead. I have a good feeling about this pack."

"Same here," Submerge agreed, grabbing a water bottle and drinking down the contents. "So, now what?"

"We gear up and head out. There's only six of them left, they won't get far," Rainbow said. "Let's sort the supplies, figure out who stays back as a guard and get hunting."

Nobody disagreed with the plan and so it was that Gloss found himself put to work on sorting all the water bottles. He carefully arranged them at the back of the cornucopia, the hardest spot for would-be thieves to claim them.

At least there his alliance wouldn't be able to see the tormented look in his eyes nor how he used up one of the bottles to wash away the blood on his hands.

"I'm not sure what's worse," Gloss muttered to himself as the cannons started to fire. "How gross it is or how I don't know whose blood it is."

* * *

The careers ended up leaving Galley behind as a guard, making their way deeper into the tropical island. Gloss bought of the rear, a belt of throwing knives around his slender waist and a throwing axe in each hand. At this early stage he was more than content to just let Rainbow and Cindra lead the pack.

Better they take the early scrapes and wounds rather than himself.

Nightfall soon arrived and with it the need to set up a camp. The anthem began to play by the time the careers had got their sleeping bags set out and their soup properly heated up. The was little reaction as the faces of the dead were shown in the sky. Just the odd snide remark or comment of who actually killed each tribute and how.

Gloss kept himself staring up the sky until the anthem ended, wanting to know for certain who else was left. He wasn't about to assume the only threats to his life were his own allies come the time for the pack to collapse. Not when several outliers had scored above a six this year.

The faces of both from Three, the girl from Five, the girl from Six, the boy from Seven, both from Eight, both from Nine, the boy from Ten, the girl from Eleven and the girl from Twelve filled Gloss' vision one by one. He couldn't help tilting his head, confused.

"Hm, I guess the pipsqueak from Twelve made it after all," Gloss said to himself, surprised.

"Didn't think he had it in him," Xantor agreed, sitting himself down beside Gloss. "Not like he'll last much longer, but by the standards of a Twelve tribute he's doing alright."

"So basically, by the standards of literally any other district besides maybe Six he's doing badly?" Gloss guessed.

"You got it," Xantor paused to laugh. "Anyway, if you ask me our sixth biggest threat out there is probably the girl from Seven. She scored a nine, same as us. You don't get nines for nothing in the Games."

"Yeah, that makes sense… wait, sixth biggest threat?" Gloss replied, quirking up an eyebrow.

Xantor gestures to the other careers and then back in the general direction of the cornucopia.

"Our alliance is filled with the strongest tributes. Makes sense that we're each other's biggest threats later down the line," Xantor stretched out, taking out a knife to start carving away at a shard of tree bark. He lowered his voice. "But you know what, I said I owe you one… so, tell you what, when it comes time for the pack to break, I have your back. Deal?"

Gloss didn't hesitate to fist bump with Xantor. "Deal. It's no love lost with Rainbow."

"Dude, same. Cindra is…" Xantor trailed off, making a face. "We got this."

* * *

A few days passed by without issue. The careers returned to the cornucopia twice, swapping out Rainbow for Galley and later letting Rainbow back on the hunt and leaving Submerge as the guard. In that time only one cannon had fired, though the death of the boy from Five had been nothing to do with the careers.

It had been something far worse.

The careers were returning to the cornucopia on the fifth day, their hunt to the eastern beaches proving fruitless, only to see Submerge running towards them in a mad panic.

She was missing a hand. Where it used to be was, instead, a hastily thrown together cluster of bandages. All the fisher girl could do was babble nonsense, panicking over some sort of reptile mutts.

A desperate dash to the cornucopia answered everything. Hideous reptile mutts were gnawing away at sleeping bags, some of the lesser value weapons and, worst of all, most of the career pack's food supply. By the time the pack were close enough to start fighting the monsters it was looking unlike that there was any food left.

By the time the final scaly mutt met its end the damage was done and surely wouldn't be repaired any time soon. Plenty of the pack's equipment was missing along with almost all of their food. Only three tins of soup had survived.

"What the hell?!" Cindra screeched, punching the side of the cornucopia in frustration. "Why would the gamemakers do this?! What is this shit?"

"This is called evening out the odds a bit," Gloss replied. "Seems they don't want things being too one sided. Six of us allied and well stocked versus five stragglers with barely a weapon between them… it'd be boring otherwise, right?"

"If you think of it from an audience viewpoint Gloss isn't wrong," Galley admitted.

It was at that moment Submerge fell to the sand, finally too drained of blood to remain standing. Mere seconds later a cannon fired, confirming her death.

"…Fuck," Rainbow stomped her foot, bitter. "Whatever, everybody just grab up everything that's left. Let's get out of here. If we kill the rest fast the lack of food won't matter."

Gloss did as Rainbow asked without complaint, but he knew that she was wrong. There was sure to be severe hunger pain striking the pack in the coming days.

Pain that, to his own smugness, he was incredibly used to feeling. If the gamemakers intended for this to fuck with his chances it had only achieved the exact opposite.

* * *

Two days and one cannon later – specifically, for the boy from Six when Cindra and Galley bludgeoned him with spiked maces – the careers were all in very bad moods. Hunger pains were making most of the pack bitter and spiteful as they trudged through the tropical island in search of their prey.

Gloss was mainly just annoyed by the rain that hadn't stopped in almost half a day, though he knew it was really nothing compared to the mutts, powerful tributes and whatever the next threat to his life would be.

At least it was kind of funny to pretend to be hungry, letting out the most ridiculous sounds as he did so. The way Cindra looked at him, only to look away when she realised calling him out would be hypocritical, was giving him no shortage of amusement.

"Do we have any plans beside wandering around aimlessly?" Galley eventually asked.

"Split up and cover more ground?" Rainbow suggested, dull.

It was soon decided that Gloss and Xantor would go left and the rest of the pack would go right. They'd meet back up in a few hours. A simple plan, but Gloss had no issues with it.

All was uneventful for a while as he and Xantor made their way alongside a crystal clear river and several clusters of plants and boulders. Xantor groaned every so often from the hunger while Gloss made sure to fake a whine just as often.

"Think the others are having more luck than we are?" Xantor eventually asked, helping Gloss up a steep dirt slope.

"Well, there's been no cannons, so they can't be having the worst luck possible," Gloss replied. "Thanks."

"No prob. But you know, if there were cannons it might not be so bad. Might just be an outlier biting it, though if Rainbow or Galley bit it… eh, it helps us," Xantor paused to gulp some water from his bottle.

"Not Cindra?" Gloss asked.

"District loyalty," Xantor stated. "I can't do anything to her unless it's just us left or a mercy kill. I'm not like that piece of shit that won the Sixty First Games, dude."

Gloss had no direct response to this, merely shrugging his acceptance and continuing to follow Xantor through the tropical wilds. Eventually the distant sounds of screams entered their ears, perking both of them up.

"Think the others found somebody?" Gloss asked.

"Either that or a mutt attack is going on," Xantor took out his sword. "Let's check it out!"

The boys ran through the tropical overgrowth as quickly as their legs could carry them, the screams of despair and pleading for mercy getting louder with every passing second.

Then, suddenly, the screams came to an abrupt end. The noise was replaced by the booming of a cannon.

Gloss and Xantor arrived at the site of the screams, both flinching at the sight they saw. Between the two it was Gloss that was moreso effected by the sickening sight on the ground. The corpse of the boy from Eleven was hardly recognisable as having been a perfect. Organs and bloody entrails were everywhere, the small teenager nothing more than a pile of gore.

Even after the murder being completed Rainbow and Cindra continued to strike at the bloodied body with their weapons. Galley stood back, leaning against a tree, but seemed indifferent to it all.

Gloss felt like he was going to throw up. How was Seeder going to feel about this? Surely she was crying at that moment, perhaps wailing and sobbing like the boy had been in his final moments.

"You alright Gloss?" Xantor asked, curious.

"I'm fine," Gloss lowered his voice to barely a whisper. "Get ready, I think it's time for the pack to break. Not many left, so…"

Xantor grinned. "Right there with you, bud. Just say the word."

The boys approached the girls and Galley, spotted long before they were in range for a melee battle. Their allies greeted them with indifferent nods, not many words needing to be said.

"Made any kills?" Rainbow asked.

"Uh, you do realise no cannons fired right?" Xantor replied.

"You guys sure made one… gee wiz, what the fuck Rainbow?" Gloss asked, shaking his head. "That was just unneeded. You only need to stab, like, two or three times. This is just sick."

"We were bored," Rainbow replied, rolling her eyes. "This island sucks. The hunger sucks. We needed an outlet. What, you getting soft on us Gloss? It was just an Eleven."

"Perhaps I am getting soft," Gloss replied. He went silent, taking a few steps back.

"Whoa, so soft you can't even stand near me when you're giving me lip?" Rainbow asked, sneering.

Gloss' response was to smirk smugly. "I'm a ranged fighter."

Gloss threw his axe a moment later, the blade burying into Cindra's chest and knocking her down to the ground. In moments the life within her was rapidly fading away. Before Rainbow and Galley could react Xantor, with a mighty cheer, made a flying leap at Rainbow and bought his sword down towards her neck.

Moments later Galley was running for his life deeper into the tropical island's jungle while Gloss and Xantor looted the bodies of their former allies. There wasn't much food between them, but it and the weapons up for grabs would do for the time being.

"Should we go after Galley?" Xantor asked.

"Nah, leave him. He won't get far, and even if he does we've got him outnumbered," Gloss replied, sipping from what was once Rainbow's water bottle. "Let's go explore. Still a few outliers left and plenty of places to explore."

"Ha, sounds like a great plan to me," Xantor agreed, laughing heartily. "I'll be right with you after a quick shit."

"Urgh, gross," Gloss muttered, a hand over his face as Xantor vanished into the overgrowth.

As soon as Gloss was certain he was completely alone he turned to the nearest camper.

"I can't bring your boy back Seeder, but… I hope that eases some of the burn," Gloss said, lightly nodding to the camera. "I did the best I could."

Gloss never ended up learning what Seeder thought of this, not even in the years leading up to their eventual demises in a deadly clockwork jungle. But, in point of fact, she felt a grim sense of satisfaction and would admit that Gloss winning would hardly be the worst outcome possible at this point.

* * *

Days passed as Gloss explored the arena with Xantor at his side, the pair searching out interesting landmarks and any signs of the remaining tributes. Gloss had a keen memory, knowing that beside himself and his ally it was just Galley, Bromley from Seven, Oda from Ten and poor Fastoon from Twelve.

Gloss was also keenly aware that he'd done many terrible things and was far from being finished with them yet. How was Cashmere going to react to this?

What had she said about him during the family interviews? The possibility of her being ashamed of him scared Gloss far more than any mutt possibly could.

"You seem quiet," Xantor noted. "What's up?"

"Just thinking about home," Gloss replied. "Thinking about my sister. Just hoping all the stuff I've been doing isn't too much for her to take, you know?"

"I get you mate," Xantor said, nodding. "Lots of careers tend to feel that way, believe it or not. From Two, anyway."

"Wait, really?" Gloss could only stare, stumped. "I thought you guys liked tearing off tributes' arms or something?"

"Yeah, you'd think so… and you'd be right. We're strong! We're mighty!" Xantor laughed for a moment. "Still, I was talking to my stylist and she said it's not really uncommon for careers to just… let out a few tears or panic a bit in the launch room. They get it done before the Games, not during them. Most of us, those that have families anyway, care what the people who raised us think."

Gloss couldn't help but take the unspoken offer. "You have a family?"

"Yeah man. Three brothers, two sisters with me being the eldest. Parents and grandparents on both sides too," Xantor smiled, idly tossing up a knife and catching it as they walked along. "Plus, got my girl Tuscan waiting for me too. Call me crazy, probably true, but… turns out we're already expecting. Winning these Games, that'll make us and the baby want for nothing."

Gloss wisely tried to ignore the sudden throbbing in his heart and pit in his stomach. "Sounds like a great group of people."

"You know it. It's really thanks to you that I have a chance of seeing them again, you got that lumberjack boy off of me back in the bloodbath," Xantor stretched out as he and Gloss passed by a large tree. "But if I don't win… I hope you do. You're alright. So… what's your sister like?"

Gloss didn't hesitate to answer. "Wonderful. Nothing less."

A cannon fired. The career boys exchanged a glance before they climbed to the top of the tall tree. By the time they poked their heads through the canopy of the tropical forest they could see that the hovercraft was descending to pick up the body of the dead tribute at least three miles to the east.

"Who do you think that was?" Xantor asked as he and Gloss descended to the ground.

"It could only be Galley, the girl from Seven or the boy from Twelve. Maybe the killer is still over there – wanna check it out?" Gloss suggested.

Xantor smirked, baring his teeth. "Let's do this! …And maybe find some food, I'm starving."

Gloss nodded in agreement, not willing to admit the fact he was hardly bothered by the hunger he'd had years to get used to.

* * *

The anthem confirmed that it had been Galley who died. By the time the career boys made it to the kill site and began to explore the surrounding area the killer was already gone, but they'd not bothered to hide their trail when leaving the area. All the pair had to do was follow the disturbed tropical forest floor until they came across whoever it was.

"Sure hope it's a tribute and not a mutt," Gloss muttered.

"Think it's Seven or Twelve?" Xantor asked.

"Seven, she scored high. Twelve scored a Two, who is he gonna kill?" Gloss replied.

"…Point," Xantor conceded. "Think she's close?"

"No idea. Let's just assume she is and be careful," Gloss said. He frowned at the darkness around him. "It'd be so much easier if I could see more than a few feet away."

One moment Gloss was calmly walking through the night with Xantor right behind him.

The next moment Gloss had been yanked off of his feet by a vine. It was fluke alone that caused the spear thrown from the darkness to miss him by an inch. Xantor similarly dodged the spear and ran off into the darkness.

"I got this! You just focus on cutting yourself down!" the boy from Two ordered.

Gloss wasted no time in obeying the instruction. With one of his knives he made short work of the vine, dropping down to the dirt in under five seconds. It wasn't long after he picked himself up when a cannon fired throughout the arena.

Xantor's cheers of triumph confirmed he wasn't without any allies just yet. Gloss soon made his way to where Xantor was looting the body of the girl from Seven, not that the tough lumberjill had many supplies to speak of.

"Nice work," Gloss said, a small sweat starting to form on his face. He knew what he had to do. "So, is that everybody? I think it's… just us?"

"No, I'm sure there's one more out there mate. Gimme a second," Xantor quickly counted on his fingers. "Yeah, boy from Twelve. No idea how he's still alive, but that's the timeline we seem to be in. What condition to you think he's in?"

"Hard to say for sure, but… I'll assume he's probably wounded?" Gloss said, moving to stand behind Xantor. "So, we kill him and then, like, catch our breathes back and duke it out?"

"Sounds like a plan. Honestly, you've been the best ally ever Gloss," Xantor couldn't help but chuckle as he rose to his feet. "When I win, I'll make sure you're never forgotten."

Gloss winced. "Same here, man."

Gloss bought down his axe before Xantor had even turned around, the blade burying into his skull for an instant kill. Gloss watched as Xantor fell lifelessly to the ground, dead without even realising it had happened. As nice a death as he could've gotten in the tropical arena.

"Sorry Xantor, but I'm winning these Games. I _need_ to win them," Gloss flinched as he wiped away the blood on his axe. "The boy from Twelve isn't strong, fearsome, cool, full of spirit… you are. Were. Just pragmatism."

Gloss tried not to make it obvious just how torn up h was over what he just did. He forced the most devious look he possibly could as he left Xantor's corpse behind, leaving it to the Games Editors to make him look 'lean and mean'.

He tried not thinking about Xantor's family and what they would be feeling. He tried not to feel like a guilty bastard. He tried not to think of what Cashmere must have been thinking.

"Almost over. C'mon Gloss, you can do this. Head in the Games," Gloss firmly told himself. "…All for you Cashmere…"

* * *

It didn't take long for Gloss to find the boy from Twelve. The poor kid was laying almost motionless in a patch of tropical weeds by the time Gloss crossed his path during the afternoon of the next day. Gloss winced at how the small boy was cut in numerous places, ghostly pale, covered in blood and excrement and had lost an eye.

"…Do you want me to kill you?" Gloss asked, not quite having the steely heart to mock the boy to keep up his image.

The miner boy could only weakly nod.

Gloss made it quick.

* * *

Gloss didn't care for how the Capitol citizens loved him.

He didn't care that he'd broken District One's losing streak.

He didn't care for how the Games Editors had made him appear to be an unfeeling sociopath for the audience.

He didn't care that he couldn't look at his own reflection without wanting to scream at the monster who looked back at him.

He cared a little when Snow recalled the family interview with Cashmere, calling her a lovely girl 'wasted in the Districts'.

He certainly did not care that Olga and Brutus felt his kill of Xantor was cowardly and low. Nor did he pay mind to how Bentley, Arendellian and Cecelia were plainly afraid of him.

He admittedly cared and appreciated the fact Anchor liked him, seeing a bit of himself in Gloss… for better or for worse, Gloss did not know.

There was only one thing that Gloss cared about. His sister. Was she safe? Was she appreciative of their newfound fame and fortune? …Did she still love him?

Gloss was riddled with anxiety up to when he stepped off the train and saw her waiting for him, mere steps away. Gloss paid the massive crowd no mind, Cashmere being the only thing in his world that mattered.

"Cashmere…"

Cashmere let tears fall freely, opening her arms for a hug.

"You stupid… foolhardy… reckless… give me a hug brother!"

Gloss did, and he never wanted to let go. Who needed all the adoring crowds when he was back home with his sister, the pair off of the streets forever?

"I was so worried. You… you could have been," Cashmere was reduced to sobs of relief, unable to form words.

"I know, I know," Gloss hugged his sister tighter. "Everything's gonna be alright. I'm home, I'm safe… we're safe. We're going to be alright sister."

Gloss was right.

He was right for a month until Snow demanded he agree to have his body sold or a bullet be put through Cashmere's brain. The aging president had big plans for the Lord twins and wasn't about to stop any time soon.

' _All for you Cashmere…'_

* * *

Sad as it may be, the story of the Lord twins did not have a happy ending. Especially not for Gloss – he blamed himself for bringing them into public eye and getting them into this whole mess.

Acting as the perfect, ideal career tribute had turned the outliers away from him. All good traits of his were edited out, only a sociopath remaining to be seen by the cameras. He was no Rhyder nor was he a Crown. Gloss was deemed 'just another career, just another thug'.

He'd have been alright with that if it had just been him the Capitol sold again and again. But for Cashmere to have such a fate too…

Only Seeder had showed him kindness in the years leading up to the quell. She'd gotten to see some of who he was on the inside before his final gamble paid off, and then went horribly wrong. Gloss couldn't lie to himself – he'd have gone insane if she'd not been there to show him compassion and comfort.

Little wonder that, come the third quarter quell and locked away from any sort of rebel plans or alliances, Snow ordered Gloss to kill Seeder or be forced to watch Cashmere be torn apart by mutts.

Gloss stood at the cornucopia, arming himself with throwing knives and trying not to look at the many bodies strewn around the silver horn. Neon, Bentley, Woof, Cecelia, Tabbock, Laurel, Pasture, Seeder…

"Good work guys," Brutus said, claiming a sword. "I don't think this is going to be a long Games, what with the lack of food and water. If we move quickly we should be able to hunt down at least three more by nightfall."

"You sure?" Cashmere asked, looking winded after her brief altercation with Chaff.

"More or less. I think we can agree that Arendellian won't get far," Brutus replied. "Skinner was always a weird one too, he should be easy to catch."

"Let's get him fast. Fucker got my arm," Enobaria hissed, bandaging up a cut on her left arm.

"Fine by me," Cashmere said, finally getting her breath back. "Gloss, you alright?"

Gloss lightly nodded. "Just feels weird to be back, that's all. I'll be fine."

The careers soon set out to hunt with Gloss bringing up the rear. He knew in his heart that he was not going to make it out of the arena a second time.

That was fine. If this was his penance, so be it. He was willing to face it and own up for all he'd done.

He just hoped that Cashmere would be the one to make it home. Was it likely? Maybe not. But was it possible? Gloss would right tooth and blood nail to his final breath to make it so.

He just hoped, if both of them were to die, that he'd be the one killed first.

He didn't think that he could see his sister's corpse and not go insane.

* * *

Katniss and Peeta held a respectful silence for Gloss and continued to walk down the street. It was only a few moments before they reached the next face on the Walk of Victors.

The face imprinted into the ground was that of a young woman with shoulder length hair filled with a few stylish ribbons. She smiled elegantly, almost mischievously so. It was as if the imprint was made specifically to make her appear as beautiful as possible to passers-by.

"Cashmere…" Peeta trailed off, closing his eyes tightly. "The _things_ they did to her."

"We dodged a bullet Peeta. That could have easily been us," Katniss looked pale faced and suddenly short on breath. "Just how many victors were sold… just how many of the Capitol citizens we've seen today had a hand in it?"

"I'd rather not imagine," Peeta said, a little green in his cheeks.

* * *

There we go, Gloss' story has been told! Canon gives us little to work with, but somehow he ended up being a lot easier to craft a story for than Enobaria. Perhaps, in part, due to his connection with Cashmere? I thought it was an interesting idea, having Gloss come from a pitiful background and volunteer for noble reasons, only to become trapped within villainy without escape. He got what he wanted, ensuring he and Cashmere survived the winter that 100% would have froze them to death, but at such a terrible price. Certainly a portrayal I feel might not have been expected, or at least one that I hope you all enjoyed reading. Cashmere's next up, and hers has a format that I'm eager to get started on. See you all ideally sooner than later for the next chapter!

* * *

 **Stats**

 **District 1:** Peridot Gaudy (8th Games), Crystal McCree (14th Games), Bronze Marley (19th Games), Crown Martins (24th Games), Dollar Dettwieller (32nd Games), Mascara Court (41st Games), Platinum Twist (44th Games), Gloss Lord (63rd Games)

 **District 2:** Baron Overwhill (4th Games), Runa Peace (7th Games), Olga Machete (10th Games), Rook Valiant (17th Games), Boulder Atherston (20th Games), Vercingetorix Carnby (25th Games), Dragon Batofel (27th Games), Rhyder Overwhill (39th Games), Mercy Gregor (46th Games), Brutus Gunn (49th Games), Lyme Rabe (51st Games), Enobaria Golding (62nd Games)

 **District 3:** Honorius Perthshire (5th Games), Pi Orbit (22nd Games), Beetee Latier (37th Games), Wiress Plummer (47th Games), Yohan Fairbane (58th Games)

 **District 4:** Museida Selkirk (3rd Games), Mags Flanagan (11th Games), Tide Luther (23rd Games), Librae Ogilvy (35th Games), Anchor Paddock (52nd Games)

 **District 5:** Shunt Gaspar (12th Games), Isobel Sparks (18th Games), Crimson Flanders (29th Games), Porter Tripp (38th Games), Neon Erg (48th Games), Wattzon Holmes (55th Games), Arendellian Spinner III (57th Games)

 **District 6:** Chassis Macalister (31st Games), Bentley Corduroy (54th Games), Porsche London (56th Games)

 **District 7:** Pliny Aransio (2nd Games), Fir Buzz (9th Games), Jack Tylos (21st Games), Snag Nakamura (34th Games), Blight Jordan (53rd Games), Logger Barlow (61st Games)

 **District 8:** Woof Casino (16th Games), Paige Murphy (30th Games), Spool Nylon (42nd Games), Cecelia Mog (60th Games)

 **District 9:** Mizar Aldjoy (1st Games), Gwenith Rosebud (13th Games), Teff Withers (28th Games), Laurel Flamsteel (36th Games), Tabbock Summers (43rd Games), Trevy Vex (Escaped 55th Games)

 **District 10:** Stallion March (26th Games), Lammy Phyronix (40th Games), Pasture Gallows (59th Games)

 **District 11:** Bear Redfoot (15th Games), Seeder Howell (33rd Games), Chaff Mitchell (45th Games)

 **District 12:** Duke Saint-Rose (6th Games), Haymitch Abernathy (50th Games)


	65. Cashmere Lord

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Hunger Games. They belong to Suzanne Collins.

 **Note:** We're closing in on the end of the story now, one could almost say we're finally in the countdown to the finale. So, here's Cashmere to mark the 64th Games. What do we know of her? Mostly just that she's Gloss' sister, won the year after he did and that, like many attractive victors, Snow had her whored out. As is typical, it was enough for me to craft a story out of… with a bit of a format twist that'll soon be readily apparent. Anyways, here's a little game for ya'll – we have now reached a point where, due to canon / my other HG fics / victors being name within this story, it's possible to name all of those yet to be passed on the Walk of Victors. So, challenge time! Can you guys work out who is left from #65 up to #73? I assure you, if you've paid attention it ought to be easy. Let me know in a review if you think you have it all worked out! Good luck, and enjoy the chapter!

* * *

"Hindsight is a bitch," Katniss muttered to herself. "If we'd known back then what happened to Cashmere… maybe we could've done something. Or at least worked together and avoided an axe being…"

"Yeah," Peeta continued, not wanting to dwell on the way Cashmere died. "So many what ifs, so many maybes… it's enough to drive a person mad. You know, I remember seeing her Games when I was little. I remember the bush mutts."

"I remember her Games too, though what I mostly remember is how quickly our tributes died," Katniss glanced off to the side, haunted. "Call me crazy but I also remember Cashmere having an easy time. Well, easy by the standards of the Hunger Games."

"Maybe some of it was rigged? It's not so hard to believe. I mean, Spud's Games were clearly rigged at the end, but…" Peeta trailed off, sickened. "That had Titus, that probably doesn't count."

"Yeah," was all Katniss said. "Rest in peace Cashmere. Sorry we never got to know who you really were on the inside."

The star crossed lovers said no more, holding a respectful silence for Cashmere.

* * *

 **64** **th** **Annual Hunger Games**

 **Name:** Cashmere Lord

 **Gender:** Female

 **District:** 1

 **Age:** 18

 **Kills:** 8

* * *

Those within the Capitol would be mostly inclined to call me a brave, grandfatherly and loving sort of leader for our great nation.

Those out in the Districts would surely call me a tyrant, a monster and a creature from the bowels of Hell. Well, those outside One and Two mostly, but even then…

Thirteen? I don't really care to imagine what they may think of me, but it's likely nothing good.

Good? Evil? To me it's nothing quite so simple. I'm a President and a driven one at that. I'd do whatever it takes not just for my own power to be secure, but for the Capitol to stay as strong as it possibly can be. I may not have any conscious memories of the Dark Days, but I grew up around people who did and recall the aftermath of that vile mess… suffice to say, there's nothing I won't do to ensure such a thing never happens again.

If it means the Hunger Games go on for centuries and beyond, so be it. Is it cruel? Perhaps so, but it's nothing to a real war. Look at it through simple math; what's twenty three lives compared to tens of thousands? Nothing whatsoever.

Only a complete stranglehold on the districts will keep us all from going extinct.

If I happen to gain a vast array of wealth and power beyond my past self's dreams in the process, who would I be to refuse it? Much of it has been a gift or the wage of the job.

I pour myself a drink of the finest wine. It's not often I open up a fresh bottle of Panem's finest, but as it's reaping day… why not? It's a grand occasion, one worth celebrating.

I can't help wondering, sometimes, what Thirteen may think as they watch the reapings in their gloomy underground bunkers. Oh, sure, we can't exactly confirm if they have tuned into our broadcasts – their signal jammers from the Dark Days make that a difficult matter – but if they happen to do so… I'd rather hope the guilt consumes them. Destroys them. Abandoning their brethren to their fate? Not quite behaviour I can claim to approve of. I take life for very specific reasons. They pulled out before anything was truly lost.

"So, dad, which district do you think will win this year?"

My daughter Silver looks at me with wide, curious eyes. Seated on her lap is my darling granddaughter, Rhonda. Just shy of her second birthday and already she's the most wonderful thing in this crazy world of ours. I imagine that, as she grows older, I'll be unable to resist spoiling her.

Silver and her husband Dionysus look at me, eager for my opinion. My wife, Agnes, is similarly curious. I can't help but smirk – it's nice that one's opinion is so sought after. A reminder that, even when away from public eye and merely having breakfast with my family, my power is absolute.

Best of all, I know exactly where to hedge my bets.

"District One, no doubt about it," I pause to butter my toast. "The female, if I was forced to pick one of their tributes right now."

"Why's that dad?" Silver asks.

"Oh, call it a gut feeling my dear," I let out a soft chuckle. "Your dear old dad is never wrong, right?"

One by one they all laugh and agree, seeing no reason to doubt my claims. Truthfully I have no reason to doubt my own claim either. Sure, nothing is ever certain in the Games aside the fact only one can get out. Well, aside that _incident_ in the Fifty Fifth Games. Anyway, the point is that while things are not certain… they can be given certain fixes.

I first saw Cashmere on-screen during the family interviews of last year's Games. Just a few minutes of footage told me everything I needed to know. She's Gloss' weakness, he'd do absolutely anything to keep her safe. That was the whole reason he volunteered, after all.

More importantly, it was clear that the girl was a natural beauty. It was even more clear once wealth entered her life thanks to Gloss' win. When you add this and the prior fact together it creates an obvious sort of plan to follow.

I paid Gloss a visit. I, admittedly, do not visit victors particularly often unless it's Bronze or Olga. But this time I had to make an exception.

I knew that I needed Cashmere in the Games. The novelty of twin victors is one those who live in this grand city will eat right up.

More than that, they'd pay me hundreds of thousands of Caps for her body. Why ever would I say no to that kind of profit?

All it took to ensure Cashmere would be trained up by her brother and enter the Games was the simple threat that a bullet would go into her brain if Gloss refused my demands and that, if they were to tell anybody about anything, a random area of One would be set ablaze. One full of children. They bent the knee and submitted not long after that.

As I said, I only take life for specific reasons.

Between her life of survival on the streets and a year of proper training and high quality living I believe Cashmere is ready for the Games. I doubt she will leave me disappointed. But, on the off chance she does, there will surely be other tributes who would make fine winners. Perhaps one of the Twos, or even a Three. I always found District Three a bit underrated by the common rabble that watch the Games.

But, I'm getting lost in my own head. On screen a girl is reaped from the sixteen year old sections. She's only on the stage for a moment before, as expected, Cashmere volunteers and takes her place.

I must give credit where it's due, Cashmere is a great actress. Anybody not wise to what's going on behind the scenes – so, everybody aside myself, some ministers and a the gamemakers – would just assume she's another powerful tribute from One, perhaps eager to share in her brother's wealth.

Gloss can't hide his worry, but I shan't punish him for it this time. The simple fact they are related can explain it away, no harm done.

I don't pay overly much attention to the tributes after that. I'd asked for a slightly weaker crop of outliers to make it less obvious that Cashmere is supposed to win, and it seems this was interpreted to mean 'a clump of snivelling, skinny children aged between twelve and fourteen, with one random fifteen year old for variety'.

"You were right dad," Silver says. "Cashmere's going to win. No doubt about it."

"How do you make such accurate predictions before even seeing the tributes?" Dionysius asks, awed.

I just chuckle softly. "It all comes down to politics and my own intuition. Anyway, I'd best to getting off. There's work to be done down at the office."

Silver, of course, asks to come with me. Even Agnes seems like she'd want to see me work for just one day, but I have to refuse them. On the surface it's all about safety and keeping them out of public eye. Best nobody know exactly who my family are, lest Rhonda come to any harm.

Really though, I'd rather not let them get close to any sort of power. I've seen Silver's ideas and plans for what she hopes to do when she, one day, becomes president. Big ambitions, big goals.

I'm not blind to the fact I will die one day and that somebody will succeed me, but that day isn't for a while yet. Sometimes I feel unsure if Silver is really the best candidate.

I put it to the back of my mind. Such thoughts can be dealt with later on.

* * *

Sometimes it can be hard to pay attention during meetings, even after all the years I've held onto the role as president. Whether it's the people speaking to me being some combination of stupid or impossible to like, the topic being overall pointless or just me being in a bad mood the end result is the same.

I have to force myself to stay awake.

Anybody would have trouble keeping their eyes open if they had to listen to Cressida Nova, the Minister of Citizen Welfare, making a presentation about the dangerous conditions in the power plans within Five.

It's not like she's wrong – they are dangerous – but I don't see a reason to change a thing. The more downtrodden the districts are the easier it is to keep power and avoid war.

If it slows down our production by a few hours, so be it.

I say all the usual things about how we'll consider it, ask others for their own input, send scouts to Five to check people as they work. It's code for 'sit down and shut up'. The only reason her job exists is because it's always been there ever since Panem came to be. It's tradition more than anything. The only citizens she could actually be permitted to do anything for are those in the Capitol and they, typically, want for nothing.

Granted, it's not like Cressida gives a damn about those out in the districts, it's more that she wants production to be quicker.

Time passes painfully slowly, the only break from the monotony of the meeting room being a broadcast of Caesar and Claudius making early predictions and theories about the tributes, all from the reaping alone.

I'll give Caesar one thing, he's right that Cashmere is one to watch. As I gaze at the repeat broadcast of the family interview she took part in for Gloss last year I imagine that the Capitol citizens will be watching her too.

They always did love pretty things ever so much.

* * *

I've always had a sort of fondness for the parade. The rather comically terrible costumes are a guilty pleasure of mine and it's good to see the tributes. It's easier to pick out any possible rebels and problem when I can see them down below me rather than on screen.

Suffice to say, nobody this year is likely to become a problem.

Cashmere looks delightful in the outfit her stylist came up with. Feathers, rubies and nothing else. I'm sure people will be calling up to ask about the first purchases before the night is over.

I can't deny that Two, Three and surprisingly Six looks really good this year with the gladiator, cyborg and nascar costumes respectively, but none can really hold a candle to Cashmere and, to a lesser degree, her partner. The boy, named Chocolate if I recall it rightly, certainly makes the gem and feather combo work. Still, he's a very distant second to Cashmere.

The chariots all come to a stop at the ground beneath my balcony one by one. Some tributes look excited, others determined and several look like they're about to start crying. I pay no mind, never being one to let my emotions show.

It's easy enough to accomplish that when you feel nothing for those in the chariots, aside seeing the associated opportunities for profit and power.

My earpiece comes to life. "President, Sir, you're live."

The crowd quietens down quickly as I take my position at the front of the balcony, just as it does every year. It's a testament to my power that this is possible – anybody alive knows how infamously hard it is to get the citizens of this city to remain calm and quiet.

"Welcome, welcome. It's time once more for another Hunger Games. Welcome to our fair city, tributes. We honour your bravery, your sacrifice and how by taking part in our sacred tradition you're playing a grand role in securing our nation's future," I look down at the tributes. I may look almost grandfatherly to the cameras, but I want there to be no mistaking that I won't tolerate any trouble from a single one of them. "Happy Hunger Games and may the odds be ever in your favour!"

A short speech, but in my experience keeping things short and to the point often works. Why overcomplicate things?

I glance down at Cashmere as the District One chariot makes its way towards the tribute building. She continues to smile and wave for the citizens, earning a few roses in response.

As far as she knows she's just here for the novelty of twin victors and to keep herself from being shot. She has no idea about the odds being very much in her favour nor how she'll be meeting quite a few dozen citizens, all very interested in her.

Oh, but she'll know soon enough.

I'm getting ahead of myself again. That can all come later. I should be getting back home or I'll miss Agnes' roast beef. That's certainly not something I can allow to happen.

* * *

It might strike the common folk as odd, but sometimes I babysit Rhonda when Silver isn't able to care for her. She's a busy woman after all.

I find it concerning that she's busy toadying up to a few ministers here and there. I'm sure she's not trying to have me replaced or overthrown, I know her well enough to trust she'd never contemplate such a thing, but her desire for power is concerning.

Honestly, all but Rhonda get that way. I haven't missed how Agnes and Dionysus sometimes look jealous of my absolute power. I fear it might end up proving to be a negative influence on Rhonda. Perhaps, after Games season, I might see about doing something about it.

Presently Rhonda sit on my lap, babbling something that hardly resembles any real words that I know of. Simply darling.

My attention is torn between Rhonda and what is being broadcast to the screen of my personal laptop. Footage of what's going on in the training centre. Typically nobody outside of the staff of the Hunger Games is supposed to see the training days as they happen, but there are certain exceptions when you're the most powerful man in the country.

I'm not disappointed by what I'm seeing.

Many of the half-starved tributes are not handling themselves well. Most are haphazard and even a bit erratic in their movements around the training centre. They clearly have no idea what they are doing. It's to be expected, most of the tributes being too young to know how to properly hold a weapon.

That or they're just not strong enough to do so.

The career alliance, as it often is, consists of the Ones and the Twos. No Fours this year, but honestly it feels like the days of District Four being careers are starting to come towards the end. They never did put up anywhere as strong of a fight as One and Two.

Cashmere continues to surprise me. No doubt per Gloss' suggestion she's taken to mocking the outliers. The gamemakers tend to always like that, and it does assert a primal sort of dominance, so it's certainly not a bad idea.

That in itself wouldn't surprise me. No, the thing that surprises me is that she's doing this while performing a complicated gymnastics routine on poles and hoops. It's honestly quite compelling.

I'm sure the sponsors lined up for her will appreciate that sort of flexibility.

* * *

The scores came out not long ago. It was nothing outside of what I had been expecting in this year of an average career pack and a surplus of weak outliers. Mostly just threes, fours and the odd five here and there. Cashmere and Chocolate both scored nines while their counterparts from Two manage eights. Lower than what I'd expected, but I can't say I'm complaining.

It all makes it easier for my planned goal to come to pass. I can have things rigged, but only so much. Too much riggage and the Games lose their feeling of all consuming fear and may incite rebellions. Not to mention the Games have a habit of sometimes going off the rails at a moment's notice. Nothing is certain.

"Sir, are you listening? I am here to show you the mutts, not to waste your time nor mine."

"Oh, right. Yes Iris, continue."

If only I could be lucky enough to spend my night sitting around thinking over what the scores might mean for the Games ahead. Instead, I have to look over some of the mutts prepared for the Games this year. Normally this doesn't bother me – it's not as if the mutts are going to get loose and I've long been desensitised to them – but recently it's not been the mutts I've had a problem with.

It's the one creating them, Iris Persephone.

I sit quietly in my seat, watching Iris as she calmly goes through a presentation about what she's called Mutt Project XJD-5Z, otherwise referred to as bush mutts. It's the standard sort of affair; their abilities, the ways they will kill tributes, how they work on a genetic level. All typical things to hear.

Iris though… she just has this habit of being so unnerving to be near. I'm not claiming to be a paragon, certainly not, but Iris is something else. Her lack of emotion as she creates vile poisons, horrific mutts, runs tests on humans… it's sinister how she doesn't emote, merely staring with that sniper reticule eye of hers almost gazing into the soul of those she looks at.

I fidget slightly in my seat as she looks at me, speaking about the bush mutts and their capacity to tear out hearts. Why did I hire this woman again? I've never been able to stay in the same room as her for long, even before she became the head of genetics!

The worst part is that she's only fifteen. At the time it seemed hiring a historically smart prodigy like her, creepy or not, for this job was a great idea. Oh how wrong I was.

At the very least nobody has to know how much she creeps me out. Nobody has to know… so long as I survive another half hour of this.

How much worse can the bush mutts be than the reptiles last year or the scorpion mutt that stung Enobaria in the year before that?

"Observe," she says, devoid of emotion. "This simulation should accurately explain what is expected to happen if the bush mutts can get a tribute under the age of sixteen into their grasp for upwards of two seconds."

I don't think I'll ever work out how I hold back my vomit when the bush mutt on screen gets to work. What in the name of the Capitol is it _doing_?! The Games are meant to be a punishment for the Districts to watch, not the President!

"Is something wrong, Sir?" Iris asks, staring at me in the exact worst sort of way. "You wanted aggressive and terrifying mutts. I made them for you. Is this not what you wanted?"

"It is," I don't have the nerve to contradict this creepy young woman. "It is Iris. Good work. Is that all?"

"No sir. We have five more simulations to go through. I followed all your instructions, however vague they were, so I think you'll feel impressed."

I'd ask what I did to deserve this, but I can think of a few things. If this is the price for power over the nation, so be it. Some things are worth dealing with this woman.

Well, usually.

* * *

Most are required to pay a high fee to be able to watch the interviews life, especially for seats at the front of the venue. Quite a few are either beaten to the tickets or cannot afford them to begin with, forced to watch the show from their homes.

Being President I, of course, have free entry and the same holds true for my family. As always we're seated up in my private box, a comfy seat set out for all of us.

If any of my family have worries about the peacekeepers stranding guard with rifles then they do not show it. It's something people get used to after a while in the Capitol, no matter who they are. Even my ministers have guns pointed their way when approaching me, even if just to wish me a good afternoon. Just necessary security measures, nothing more. A president can never be too carefulk.

Orion wasn't careful enough and I took full advantage. I can't help smiling, amused he got so cocky in his last years and assumed himself invincible. He was so distracted by the disastrous few Games in the first half of the fourth decade that he forgot to watch those who were closest to him. What a fool.

"Dad, it's starting!" Silver giggles to herself, positively giddy at Caesar finishes off the pre-show warm up.

"So it is. Well then, let's see how it goes," I lean a little closer, unable to hide my interest in what Cashmere's interview might be like.

I'm not waiting for long. As always the girl from One is the tribute slot to start off the night. Cashmere enters the stage to even more applause than I'd expected. Clearly the favourite of the typical Capitol citizen… for more than one reason. The tiny silver dress she's wearing and the way her hair's been done up certainly gives the crowd something nice to look at.

Caesar keeps things moving along quick and concise for the first minute or so. It's standard interview fair, asking Cashmere if she feels prepared (she does), is she has a favoured weapon (knives), whether her district partner or the boy from Two is cuter (the boy from Two is, apparently) and what sort of arena she's hoping for (a forest and city fusion).

I lean forth somewhat when the topic is bought around to why Cashmere entered the Games and her bond with Gloss. She'd best pick her words very carefully from here on in, both for her own sake and that of her brother.

"Gloss has always been my idol. My hero. He's always been everything to me and when we were growing up… I wanted to be just like him," she speaks the truth, so far at least. "I guess you could say I wanted to be just like him. If he can become a victor then so can I. He taught me all of his moves and he's mentoring me too. We're a perfect team."

"Sounds like you have the best chance going into the Games. Our statistics team are calling you the most likely winner. How do you feel about that?" Caesar asks.

"I don't know, how do you feel about being the face of the Hunger Games?" Cashmere puts on a cheeky grin. "I love it!"

"That's the enthusiasm I love to hear!" Caesar exclaims, as grand as I've come to expect from him. "I wish you all the best Cashmere."

"Oh Caesar, you're such a darling," Cashmere lets out what I can only describe as the fakest posh laugh in the history of the nation, not that the audience seem able to tell. "With your support and that of all the audience I'm sure I'll make it back soon enough."

Cashmere leaves the stage to loud applause and many people chanting her name. She's certainly a smash hit and the show's only just begun. The rest are going to be hard pressed to do better than her.

All according to plan. All she has to do now is fight hard, avoid death in the opening minutes and look pretty for the cameras.

I think she can do that. I'm sure she got my message loud and clear – if she dies then an accident can be arranged for Gloss. Not enough to kill him, merely enough to leave him crippled or blind. I'll confess that I've not decided which one just yet.

"Dad, stop daydreaming! The boy from One's coming on!" Silver's voice jerks me out of my thoughts.

Perhaps I'll listen to her this time. After all, I have the best seat there is. Why not enjoy it for the rest of the show? Who knows, maybe one of the interviews might be funny.

* * *

I have to say, the gamemakers certainly provided a fine arena for the Games this year. Last year had great tributes, but the arena didn't really click with me. But this? I can see this actually being rather entertaining, provided it wraps up in under two weeks.

It's a massive hedge maze. I doubt even I could find my way out of that one, the hundreds of pathways through it stretching on for miles. No doubt tributes might drive themselves insane trying to search for a way forward they'll never be able to find.

Cashmere stands at the pedestal directly in front of the cornucopia, between the pair from Nine. She's as focused and vicious as I could have hoped for. I'd certainly hope she keeps it up because if she doesn't act vicious for the cameras then her brother will suffer for it.

Ah, morals and standards. I really do pity those that are bound by them. It makes life a lot more needlessly hard than it is to begin with.

As is often the case I'm having to work while the Games begin. Petitions and information for my ministers to deal with that simply cannot wait. A thankless part of the job, but where would my nation be if it was put off?

"District Eight is asking-"

"Deny them," I don't need to hear the rest of what Egeria, Minister of Interior, has to say about Eight. "They're never behaving and now they want something? If anything we should cut their rations and wages by forty percent. Next?"

"The peacekeepers found Porsche streaking in the Capitol's grandest park again," Leto, the Chief of Propaganda, says. "They're asking what they should do with her. I know the Capitol is sex positive and public nudity isn't that high on the list of national incidents, but it's still poor form."

"Same as always, give her a day in solitary. Chassis can just take over mentoring her tribute, if she survives the bloodbath," I pause to pour myself a drink. "Actually, will Chassis even live that long either? What was it the man has, cancer?"

"Yes, but he's stable for now," Leto glances off to the side. "I hope he dies soon. Maybe then people can start forgetting the Thirty First Games."

"We can only hope," I glance at the screen, noting the tributes are on the move. "Ah, looks like it's all kicking off. But, let's not get distracted, we should… hmm, not bad."

I'll give credit where it's due, it was clever of the boy from Seven to tackle the boy from Ten an instant before the gong rang. Sure enough he's already smashing the boy's head onto the pedestal, the mines deactivated before he hit the ground.

Too bad for him he's not watching his back. How simple it is for Cashmere to throw a knife into his back. She doesn't stop there, barely pausing before her second knife is thrown into the throat of the pitiful girl from Twelve.

She truly is the sister of a victor. She's taken down a further two tributes by the time the outliers have the good sense to evacuate the area and her final knife leaves the girl from Four bleeding rather painfully. Is it any wonder really why approximately forty percent of the bets have been placed upon her?

"Thirteen deaths. Not bad," Antonius, the Minister of Defence, notes. He practically drools at the sight of all the blood and bodies. Such an animal. "Shame it couldn't be fifteen. It's always so… fascinating when so many die at the start and so few scatter away in the aftermath."

"No, it's just dull," Leto replies. "That basically happened in the Fifty Second Games. Sure, Anchor's powerful and loyal to the Capitol, but it only lasted twenty three hours. Pathetic."

"Silence," they obey me from the moment I say it. "The Games are about scaring the districts and keeping them under control. If a long Games does that, good. If a short Games does that, also good. Besides, it's a maze, the more survivors the more chance it might get dull."

I tap the papers in front of me, diverting the attention of my ministers from the screens and back to the task at hand. Right now it's just showing the pack sorting through the cornucopia's bounty and the remaining outliers fleeing for their lives. Nothing we need to waste time watching.

"So, it says here the fence outside District Twelve is never properly working. Not enough electricity or something," I pause, thinking it over. "It's Twelve. I feel like that power would be better used on our own city. Everybody in agreement?"

Naturally, they all are. Only a fool would do otherwise.

The only sour point on the meeting comes when I find a petition from Silver in with the rest of my papers. A petition for resources to start an all new district. District Fourteen – Muttations.

How very ambitious of her…

* * *

If not for the bush mutts these Games would be set to last far too long. I've not got the patience for a Games to last for the painfully long time the Ninth and Forty Fourth did. There have been two kills since the bloodbath and both of them were because of the bush mutts.

Admittedly I ended up being sick after witnessing both kills, but it's a small price to pay if it keeps the districts in complete submission.

I try to enjoy my afternoon coffee break, watching the Games with one eye and keeping an eye on the news feed upon my phone with the other, but it's hard to do that when I feel so tired. Signing my approval for executions and whippings is hard work.

At least Cashmere is providing no shortage of entertainment. She's a natural at leading the pack, the other three content to fall in line and let her guide them through the maze. Perhaps not to any tributes, but with the arena being as it is I think she can be allowed some leniency.

I watch the careers through live feed of my laptop, the four making their way down the long corridors of the hedge maze, utterly lost. The helpful map displayed on screen by the gamemakers makes it easy for the audience to keep track of everything, but the tributes have no such luck.

Not even Cashmere. I may intend for her to win, but there are limits I cannot cross. It won't do to make it too obvious. There's rigging and then there's _rigging_.

"Where do we go now?" Chocolate asks as the four arrive at a junction. "Left or right?"

"Hmmmm… right?" Cashmere suggests. "We don't know what's ahead. Each path is about as good as the other, right?"

"It'd be better if we could find a few tributes," the boy from Two grumbles, bringing up the rear as the pack keep moving.

"Ditto," says the girl from Two. "C'mon Cashmere, find us some prey! I didn't train for fourteen years only to spend my Games walking through a maze for fun."

"We'll find them soon," Cashmere shakes her head, a little annoyed herself. "The gamemakers might send one of them towards us soon."

The four all stop when a terrified scream fills the air. They don't know what happened but us lucky viewers know better. The screen shows the final moments of the boy from Ten as another hedge mutts tears him to pieces and devours what's left of him after that.

I wouldn't count myself among the lucky viewers come to think of it.

By the time I swallow back the vomit the careers are on the move again, only to come to a dead end. As is inevitable in the Games a big argument breaks out amongst the careers, the Twos yelling at Cashmere for getting them lost and far from any actual prey while Cashmere fires back that it's not her fault. Chocolate just watches the whole thing silently, clearly choosing to not get involved. Smart of him, indeed.

The argument only ends when a particularly massive bush mutt spawns from several dozen meters away and begins to make its way towards the pack. Chocolate and the Twos turn to fight it while Cashmere backs away. Is she becoming a coward? That certainly won't do.

Ah, of course. I'm surprised I didn't see it coming sooner. Especially after the way the girl from Two had a knife to Cashmere's chin mere moments ago. She's climbing right up the side of the hedge maze one grasp at a time. The walls are eight meters tall but clearly Gloss trained her well. She's up to the top far quicker than I would have deemed possible.

The rest of her alliance kill the bush mutt, only to become confused by Cashmere's disappearance. She doesn't take the chance to throw knives at them, content to simply head further away into the maze upon the wall tops. Quite smart of her, really, to hide her location and her advantage.

It reminds me of when I was a little boy and saw Runa do very much the same sort of thing in her own arena. Perhaps Cashmere might take Runa's place as a Games icon once she passes on. With Runa being so old now it surely won't be long until she does.

All the more reason Cashmere has to win.

* * *

I don't expect these Games to last for much longer, even with how the arena is so vast. Cashmere's clever plan to climb upon the maze has saved her from two threats in one go. Not only can the other tributes not reach her but neither can the bush mutts.

Cashmere, meanwhile, has no such issues when it comes to attacking the others. I'm left smirking when she's able to find tributes and throw knives down at them. One knife to the chest and they're dead before they know what's even happening to them. She's made seven kills so far in the Games and I see no reason that she cannot claim more for herself by the time it's over.

Between Cashmere's knife throwing and the bush mutts making short work of the weak crop of tributes it's little surprise that nobody thinks the Games will last longer than six days. That says a lot when one considers this is the sixth day. Just five tributes remaining and base don the way Chocolate has been cornered by three bush mutts it's probably going to become four very soon.

I turn away, unwilling to taint my mind more than it already has been. I think after this I'll have to put my foot down and tell Iris to knock it off with the bush mutts. Literally anything else would be better than them.

I pay the Games no more mind for the time being. Between Cashmere, the pair from two and the girl from Six it's pretty obvious what the outcome will be.

Imagine all the money I'll be making.

For the time being I busy myself with signing some new laws into effect. A ten cent pay increase for Capitol citizens, food deductions for district citizens, approvals for training requests for Olga's career academy, stricter curfew in District Eight… it all become repetitive after a while.

The monotony is broken when I glimpse an unexpected piece of paper. Hmm, seems like Agnes, Silver and even Dionysius fancy the chance to be permitted to govern over Districts Eleven and Twelve for a few months. 'Practise for future opportunities' they claim.

Hmmmmm… I don't like their sudden desire for a bit more power. I don't like it one bit.

"I suppose I knew this day was coming soon enough. The day my family grow from lambs to lions," I pour out a small shot glass of wine for myself. "They've really come a long way over the years."

I'm left choking on my drink when I turn back to the TV. Of course I'd have to look at the moment where a bush mutt is eating the girl from Two and Cashmere fell from the top of the hedges and crushes the boy from Two's head. Her left arm looks nasty, a little bone exposed, but even so she should be able to kill the girl from Six.

If not, so be it, Gloss will pay for it.

* * *

I can't help smiling as I set the victor's crown upon Cashmere's head. Sure enough, she killed the girl from Six like she was nothing. The nation's newest victor stands before me perfectly obedient and without any signs of trouble making, almost like a doll ready to be played with.

"You fought well," I tell her, smiling. "Good work. You've truly earned the right to join your brother in riches, forgiveness of your ancestor's crimes and whatever your heart may desire."

"Thank you sir," she says, soft like a mouse. "If it's possible… what I really desire is to go home."

"That can be easily arranged. Come the morning you'll be making your way back home where you belong," I give her another smile. "I'm sure you'll find your new manor to your liking, but something tells me you and Gloss will likely be sharing his own home. Fine with me. Use your property however you'd like, even as storage space."

"Yes sir," she glances off to the side for a moment and then at me. "Um… I did everything you said. I followed every demand. Are we, um… cool now? We good?"

"I'd say we are. Just one more task and we can call everything perfectly clear," I gesture lightly t the crowd behind me. They, of course, cannot hear us. Not when we're up here and they're cheering mindlessly down there. "There were many people who became fans of you. Some sponsored a good deal of money towards your victory. They'd like to meet you."

"Meet me? So… meeting my fans?" she remains cautious, but manages a tiny smile. "That sounds nice."

"Oh, it is. Lots of victors do the same thing. The system works for everybody," I pass a small slip of paper into her hand. "This man wants to meet you tonight. He was your first sponsor."

I turn away from Cashmere to address the crowd. All it takes to have them exploding into a frenzy of cheering is to have Cashmere wave to them and for me to name her as the sixty fourth victor.

Cashmere would do well to perform her victor's duty tonight very well. After all, I've got dozens of appointments lined up for her. I'm sure Gloss will do his part to help her get ready for it, but there's only so much he can do.

His company was not purchased for tonight. Only Cashmere. She'll have to navigate the Capitol without her big brother, for at least a couple hundred nights. After that, we'll see.

I suppose I'm getting ahead of myself yet again. All this thinking and planning… and I've not even joined my family for a spot of post-Games tea just yet.

* * *

"I'm fine, really. I'm fine," I tell the doctor, trying not to wheeze too badly.

"I'm sure you are Mr President. We just want to make sure of that, medically speaking. This was one of the worst assassination attempts yet," the doctor frowns, disturbed. "We're lucky you thought ahead to carry an antidote."

It all happened so fast. One moment I'm drinking some fine tea with the rest of my family. The next moment I'm gasping and grabbing for an antidote while they choke and die all around me. Only Rhonda was spared, having not been given tea to begin with.

She sleeps in the bed set up beside my own, oblivious to what has become of her parents and grandmother. I suppose it falls to me to be the one to raise her from now on, all alone. It's the least the poor girl deserves.

"I'll be back shortly. I'll see if I can do something about those sores in your mouth," the doctor salutes me before he reaches the door. "I'm sorry for your losses Mr President."

"Thank you…" I turn away for a moment. "Don't hurry back too quickly. I'd like to be alone for a while."

"I understand. Again, sorry for your losses."

I watch him leave, not averting my gaze until his footsteps are gone. Only then do I allow myself to smirk. There's only one person who knows the full truth and it's not that doctor.

Things went the same way they almost always do. Associates of mine craving more power than they have any right to lay claim to, enough to start threatening me, and of course me being left to deal with the emerging problem before it goes too far.

Associate. Family. What's the difference? My power is questioned either way and must be protected. Perhaps it's partly my own fault for not doing more to control the desires Silver, Agnes and Dionysius had. I can control the nation, but why not three people?

One look at Rhonda, sleeping soundly, and I resolve to do better with her. I'll raise her to be polite, want for nothing, never question my power, depend on me for help and have no desire to make changes to the status quo. Yes, it'll be perfect. She'll be perfect.

I'm not surprised when Bronze walks into the room, still as much an arrogant and sociopathic human being as he was when we first met so very long ago. Perhaps the victor who most benefited from the Capitol's regime. From my own power.

He holds a bouquet of white roses and a get well card, no doubt his cover for being my visitor. Poor cover, but the common folk in this city would not question it. We've been openly on good terms for decades, who would question it if he came to visit me?

"So, killing your own family? That's pretty brutal Cory," he glances over to Rhonda. "You missed one."

"She'll be moulded into my successor. Rest assured, if you're still alive by then she'll ensure you continue to live in luxury," I idly offer Bronze a bottle of wine from my bedside. "I have no need for it."

"You're the best," he says, laughing between gulps of the drink.

I've got no reason to poison Bronze or indeed make any sort of threat to him. Why would I take out my closest ally when all that's needed to keep his loyalty is provide him with all the riches and women he desires, something all too easy for me to accomplish? I take life for specific reasons and there's no reason for me to kill Bronze.

There was, however, specific reasons to get rid of Silver, Agnes and Dionysius.

Cashmere would do well to not give me a reason to take the lives of people she may care about.

* * *

Before long the silence for the fallen victor came to an end. With one last gaze at Cashmere's imprinted face Katniss and Peeta continued walking down the street.

It was no more than a few seconds before they reached the next face on the ground. The face looking back at them was that of a cocky, sly and particularly cheeky looking young boy. His hair was immaculately groomed and windswept, the look of a true winner adorning his face. It was no shock that this face, imprinted into concrete as it was, had the potential to send Capitol women into fits of squealing and swooning.

"Finnick…" Katniss said, looking faraway all of a sudden. Memories of the mutts in the sewer filled up her head.

Peeta could only cover his face, his heart aching for the loss of his friend.

* * *

There we go, Cashmere's tale of woe! Another victor I really wanted to get into, what with the struggles of prostitution and how, given the money Snow makes off of this vile scheme, riggage may have been somewhat in play here to boost his finances. Hope you guys liked Cashmere and also found Snow's narration and typical daily life interesting, maybe even sinister? Quite the bearded old bastard isn't he? But you know _isn'_ t? Finnick! Stay tuned for the legend of District Four!

* * *

 **Stats**

 **District 1:** Peridot Gaudy (8th Games), Crystal McCree (14th Games), Bronze Marley (19th Games), Crown Martins (24th Games), Dollar Dettwieller (32nd Games), Mascara Court (41st Games), Platinum Twist (44th Games), Gloss Lord (63rd Games), Cashmere Lord (64th Games)

 **District 2:** Baron Overwhill (4th Games), Runa Peace (7th Games), Olga Machete (10th Games), Rook Valiant (17th Games), Boulder Atherston (20th Games), Vercingetorix Carnby (25th Games), Dragon Batofel (27th Games), Rhyder Overwhill (39th Games), Mercy Gregor (46th Games), Brutus Gunn (49th Games), Lyme Rabe (51st Games), Enobaria Golding (62nd Games)

 **District 3:** Honorius Perthshire (5th Games), Pi Orbit (22nd Games), Beetee Latier (37th Games), Wiress Plummer (47th Games), Yohan Fairbane (58th Games)

 **District 4:** Museida Selkirk (3rd Games), Mags Flanagan (11th Games), Tide Luther (23rd Games), Librae Ogilvy (35th Games), Anchor Paddock (52nd Games)

 **District 5:** Shunt Gaspar (12th Games), Isobel Sparks (18th Games), Crimson Flanders (29th Games), Porter Tripp (38th Games), Neon Erg (48th Games), Wattzon Holmes (55th Games), Arendellian Spinner III (57th Games)

 **District 6:** Chassis Macalister (31st Games), Bentley Corduroy (54th Games), Porsche London (56th Games)

 **District 7:** Pliny Aransio (2nd Games), Fir Buzz (9th Games), Jack Tylos (21st Games), Snag Nakamura (34th Games), Blight Jordan (53rd Games), Logger Barlow (61st Games)

 **District 8:** Woof Casino (16th Games), Paige Murphy (30th Games), Spool Nylon (42nd Games), Cecelia Mog (60th Games)

 **District 9:** Mizar Aldjoy (1st Games), Gwenith Rosebud (13th Games), Teff Withers (28th Games), Laurel Flamsteel (36th Games), Tabbock Summers (43rd Games), Trevy Vex (Escaped 55th Games)

 **District 10:** Stallion March (26th Games), Lammy Phyronix (40th Games), Pasture Gallows (59th Games)

 **District 11:** Bear Redfoot (15th Games), Seeder Howell (33rd Games), Chaff Mitchell (45th Games)

 **District 12:** Duke Saint-Rose (6th Games), Haymitch Abernathy (50th Games)


	66. Finnick Odair

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Hunger Games. They belong to Suzanne Collins.

 **Note:** Quite an anticipated victor, I would assume? I mean, it seems to me that most people love Finnick. Certainly the people within the Capitol do and therein lies one very uncomfortable topic – the victor prostitution ring, an aspect of the series that's kind of hard to not at least think about when Finnick is brought up. It was only inevitable that it would play a role in Finnick's chapter… and you know what? I think I found a way to make things work out pretty well.

Additionally, good job to those who tried to guess the victors who remain. You were all quite accurate, though it seems nobody knew who the seventy second victor is. Not to worry, you'll be seeing her sooner than later. Also, a big thanks to Red Thorn and N.C.s 1 Fan for all the reviews. Just to let you guys know, I can't respond to anon users. You'll need an account for me to be able to do that. In any case, hope all you guys enjoy the new chapter. :)

* * *

"I used to think that Finnick was so shady, smug… a prick," Katniss sighed, shaking her head ever so slowly. "You can imagine how much I regret that now. After I heard what he went through, what Snow and so many of the people in this… this damn fucking city… what they made him do…"

Peeta put a hand upon Katniss' shoulder. "He deserved better. So many of us did. But… you have to admit, he got his revenge in the end. All those secrets."

"Equal parts horrifying and amazing," Katniss agreed. "Some of those secrets he shared, the people they were about… it makes me want to vomit."

"Got that right. Remember the days when we didn't know just how depraved people could be?" Peeta paused, as if realising the answer. "…Yeah, me neither."

"If only he was here to see what we have now. Sure, it came at a heavy price… but, we won," Katniss trailed off into a silence.

The pair of victors held a respectful silence for their fallen ally and friend.

* * *

 **65** **th** **Annual Hunger Games**

 **Name:** Finnick Odair

 **Gender:** Male

 **District:** 4

 **Age:** 14

 **Kills:** 7

* * *

The net of vines ensnared its final victim, there was a moment of struggle and after a single moment the trident was bought down into the ribcage.

The cannon fired.

The trumpets sounded.

Finnick held up his trident in triumph, a look of victory and sheer relief on his face as he basked in the rising sun shining down over the overgrown junkyard he'd spent the last two weeks inside.

It hadn't been easy getting this far - far enough to bring his trident down into the chest of the runner up, the boy from Five. The flora filled junkyard had been one deadly place from the start. Nasty rust monsters lurking in and out of the shadows, scorching sun that had driven at least four of the tributes insane from sheer thirst, a career pack that was even more deadly than the mutts, a few landmines buried around the arena on the off chance somebody would step on them… it was hell.

But all Finnick had needed was charming the Capitol flawlessly in his interview, scoring an incredible ten in training and, of course, the skills he'd learnt growing up thanks to his family.

They were, after all, performers and acrobats when they weren't fishing.

Finnick weakly smiled to himself as the hovercraft descended to take him home from the arena. All the blood, all the fear, all the pain… it was all worth it. He was going home, the nightmare finally over.

What a wonderful fourteenth birthday present. Being able to simply live at all and go back to his family.

It wasn't long until Finnick learnt that the Games were far from being over. They were only just getting started now that the others were all dead and he had claimed the crown.

Age did not matter, not when President Snow was making ludicrous amounts of money selling Finnick as some sort of a living, breathing party favour. Barely a month went by before the youngest of the victors found himself practically forced into the bed of a grotesque Capitol women under threat of his family being killed if he didn't do it.

The deed lasted hours. Finnick was barely clinging to his sanity by the end of it and this was only the first of what was surely to be numerous nights in the very near future.

A sweaty arm moved towards him, passing him a necklace made out of black pearls – a variety almost impossible to find ever since the dark days.

"A gift from me to you," the women said. "It matches your lovely eyes. It's technically not mine. Moreso my husband's, but he won't miss it. It'll be our little _secret_."

Secret.

 **Secret**.

That's the moment when Finnick is able to calm himself, put on his signature winning smile and begins to collect an arsenal of weapons that he would one day use to bring down every last person who ever bought and used him, and more besides.

An arsenal of secrets, each one juicier and more depraved than the last.

* * *

 **EIGHT TIMES FINNICK WAS SOLD AND EIGHT SECRETS HE USED TO GET HIS REVENGE**

* * *

 **#1**

A swanky apartment.

Sweat staining the velvet sheets.

Finnick trying to keep his wits and, hopefully, sanity about himself.

A lecherous woman who seemed to be more spider than human cuddling herself up to him. At first Aracuna Blaze had seemed like a decent enough woman, offering Finnick his choice of food and drinks without any prompting. She'd even been fine to let him watch TV with her for an hour, no strings attached.

The drink turned out to be drugged.

Finnick, in retrospect, didn't mind this. He's being violated no matter what he does and at least this way he can't fully remember the shameful night with the spider lady. Only hissing, clicking, bouncing and what might have been artificial webbing used to bind his arms to the bed posts.

On the other hand it took all of Finnick's sheer tenacity to not break to pieces. This was a violation of human rights… but of course, even victors had no rights. Nobody outside of the Capitol did. It was an injustice the fifteen year old boy sought to fix.

That was why, when Aracuna offered him a very handsome sum of fifteen thousand caps, Finnick politely refused her. He was quick to explain that it was not a lack of gratitude and moreso just the fact that his victor stipend made cash payments something of a moot point. He didn't want to leave Aracuna ripped off.

She bought it hook, line and sinker.

"So, what else would you like?" Aracuna held Finnick closer, her spider eyes practically glowing. "I can give you anything you desire~."

"Well, there is one thing I love to be paid in more than anything else," Finnick gave Aracuna a teasing sort of grin. "Secrets. I just can't get enough of that sweet gossip, you know?"

"Oh, I know very well," Aracuna chuckled to herself. She moved closer to Finnick. "I have one secret you might like to hear. It's just too good not to tell somebody."

"I'm all ears," Finnick said, winking.

Aracuna felt her heart flutter as she leaned closer, whispering the secret to Finnick. She couldn't help but giggle over the way the young boy looked amazed by how scandalous the secret was. He seemed genuinely amazed.

Perhaps it was risky to let such a secret slip, but it was just as Aracuna had said – some secrets were just too good to not tell somebody. Besides, who would believe Finnick if he actually did tell somebody? If one secret was what he wanted then so be it. What was the harm?

The harm was made very apparent a little over ten years later when, during the second rebellion, Finnick appeared on live broadcast. The Capitol could only watch, stunned at how Finnick was looking on their screens – tired, weary… _human_.

He talked of how he'd been whored out to the Capitol's highest bidders against his will, lest one or more of his family members died if he refused.

The fact his twelve year old nephew had died in the Seventy Fourth Games meant the gloves were coming off. It was officially the limit.

"I've lost count of exactly how many people had me for a night. Some nights I was so drugged I couldn't even remember what we had done, let alone their faces. But the secrets, those stay with me always," Finnick paused to take a drink of water. "For example… Aracuna Blaze. She drugged me, though not enough for me to forget everything."

In her luxury apartment Aracuna could only stare at the screen in pure terror, silently pleading with Finnick to not say anything.

Much like Finnick's own pleas, hers were left entirely ignored.

"But drugging me? That's not a secret is it? Not really, it's just not got that scandalous zing to it," Finnick stares dead on at the camera. "I was fifteen when that happened, but I have it on good authority from the spider lady herself that she likes them even younger. Up to and including her own niece."

It was a horrible secret, one that had the Capitol unable to look away from the screen. Some were terrified as to what may be said about them, others who had never taken part in such things wanted to know what had been going on right under their noses.

Aracuna was not part of either group. Not when some of her neighbours were already trying to break into her apartment and tear her apart.

She took a perfect swan dive off of her balcony.

Pity the fall didn't kill her, if only barely. But the small crowd below kicking and beating her did the job just fine a minute or two later.

* * *

 **#2**

It had been Finnick's sweet sixteen, but the party had been anything but sweet.

Mainly because he'd been a sort of living party favour for a dozen of the Capitol citizens in attendance. It did not make any difference that some of them were either men, elderly or in some particularly disturbing case a year younger than himself, he was forced into it lest his mother take a bullet to the brain.

Sure, there was cake and, yes, it hadn't been bad at all. But what worth does cake hold when you're violated by people who, in any decent world, would've been locked away long ago? Alas, Finnick couldn't speak a word of his disgust and fear.

He wasn't even allowed to frown for a mere second.

By now Finnick was getting very good at masking the pain behind a façade of cockiness, party loving and dashing confidence. None of those who bought him even caught on to just how much he hated them. Those on the lower rungs of the Capitol, those that merely didn't see the Games for what they were and genuinely looked up to him, weren't really so bad in Finnick's opinion.

But the scum of his sixteenth birthday? He had to stop himself more than once from grabbing a crowbar and going to town on them.

After the worst of it Finnick found himself relaxing in a hot tub with the man who organised the party. A rich businessman by the name of Grunnix Hastings. The man poured Finnick out some wine and, after a toast, drank heartily.

"Thanks for the company tonight," Grunnix remarked, ever cheerful. "Certainly one of the best nights I've had in a long time. Of course, you only get one sweet sixteen, so… enough about me, did you enjoy the night?"

Finnick, of course, lied through his teeth and said that it was a night that he would never forget. Grunnix was the kind of man to leave a lasting impression. The businessman was hooked on the flattery, soon offering Finnick is solid gold watch as a gift.

"Nah, you keep it for yourself. My victor fund essentially means that I could just buy one of my own," Finnick explained. "I mean no offense of course, I just don't want one of my fans losing a possession for no great reason."

"A boy with looks and brains, huh? You're quite the full package aren't you," Grunnix remarked, chuckling approvingly.

"I believe you'd have to have both to be the most popular victor," Finnick teases. "But you know Grunnix, there is something else that I am interested in. A sort of alternate payment if you happen to have it."

Grunnix smiles. "Name it Finnick and it's yours."

"Secrets. I find the gossip so… addictive. Happen to know anything interesting?" Finnick asked, his eyes alight in a sort of hopeful curiosity.

Grunnix leaned closer, enough to make Finnick feel chills. "I have just the thing in mind."

What Grunnix tells Finnick gives him even worse chills than anything in the Capitol thus far.

Years later it's Grunnix who feels chills as the broadcast continues without interruption. Some wonder if the hacker – Beetee, of course – is just that good or if some of the technicians are letting it play out because they, too, want to hear scandals and gossip.

If that's true then they certainly get it once Finnick brings up Grunnix.

"I never forgot my sweet sixteen alright, not after what Grunnix, his friends and family did to me," Finnick could only shudder. "But what they did to me is nothing to what he did to those animals at his business. You all know it, I'm sure, Hastings Pets? Where you can get all sorts of colourful creatures? Did you ever wonder why they're so obedient and what goes on after hours?"

The things Finnick says about Grunnix and those within his family and social circle have numerous people vomiting in their homes.

Grunnix doesn't get the chance to at least try and jump to his death like Aracuna. The guests at the barbecue he'd been attending all tackle him down and tear him limb from bloody limb, the vile man screaming and agony until his very last breath.

By now there were some riots forming in the streets of the Capitol. Not many, but the size was growing and growing…

* * *

 **#3**

Finnick did not always suffer alone. There were times where more than one victor was bought for the night alongside himself. Some would call it a tantalising novelty to have several victors at once.

Any person with just a single shred of decency – for reference, the average person ought to have thousands – would know this is nothing short of depraved to even consider for a mere moment.

It had been a few days prior to the Seventy Third Hunger Games kicking off and Finnick, now in his early twenties, found himself ordered by Snow to provide some 'entertainment' for Elmira Washington. The women was one of Snow's political backers and was not to be denied whatever it was she wanted.

Well, so long as it did not affect Snow's power of course. But as things stood booking out three victors for a night didn't cross such lines.

That was why Finnick, Crimson and the newest member of the victor family, Numi Marrolto, found themselves forced into a romp in the rich woman's bedroom, a place that smelt far too strongly of perfume and other things that Finnick did not want to imagine.

Whips and cuffs were involved.

A can of cream was as well.

By the end of the session Finnick had done his best to try and take the lead in the session. Better, in his opinion, he spare Crimson and Numi from even a minute of suffering. The former had suffered this far longer than he'd been alive for and Numi was only just getting drawn into the nightmare.

It worked.

More whips came out.

While Elmira went to freshen herself up and switch out her stained wig for a fresh one Finnick tried to comfort his two fellow victors. Crimson, kept looking young and perky through forced Capitol surgeries, looked like a dead women walking. She hardly cared about anything anymore.

Numi, meanwhile, was wheezing and shaking. The street smart, somewhat meat headed rapper looked nothing like her normal self – she looked like a lost, innocent little girl.

"Does it even end?" she whispered, shaking and gagging.

"If we have our way it will one day," Finnick replied, closing his eyes. "Best you can do is smile, fake it until you make it… and just try to think about something else."

"…Why me?" Numi asked, trying her hardest to follow Finnick's advice. Her fake smile looking nothing short of ridiculous.

"You're young, you're new, you have that Indian and Korean background making you look exotic… lots of reasons," Finnick gently held Numi's hand. "You've got this."

"…This fucking sucks," Numi whispered, clenching her other hand into a fist.

"Try doing it for as long as I've been forced to," Crimson muttered, her eyes sallow and dead. "I can't even kill myself, not when Snow would just kill my family if I did."

The door opened before another word could be spoken. Elmira strode back in and soon enough the four were forced in bed with each other. Naturally the victors were not afforded the luxury of sleepwear or any clothing at all.

Finnick spoke up to distract from the looming possibility of Numi being unable to hold herself together. It was fortunate that Elmira's offer of half a million caps provided the perfect reason for him to get talking.

"No thanks. I'm honoured you think I'm worth that much, truly, but you must understand… thanks to Snow's very generous victor stipend I don't really find myself in need of money like that. I wouldn't have anything to do with it," Finnick explained. "But you know, there is one thing I wouldn't mind having. That is, if it's alright with you miss?"

"Such darling manners," Elmira purred. "Name your price, sweetie."

"Got any secrets to share? I just can't get enough of the scandals that come with upper class living," Finnick smiled his signature dashing grin. "I've been obsessed with it ever since I won the Games."

Elmira moved closer to Finnick, a glimmer of desire and danger in her eyes – naturally, made to resemble those of a fish through the use of Capitol cosmetic surgery.

"Finnick, I've got just the secret for you," she whispered.

So full of lust towards Finnick was she that Elmira forgot there were two others in bed with her. Not that it ended up mattering too much, not when Finnick himself was the one to drop the bombshell barely a few years later.

It was mere minutes after the depraved actions of Grunnix were exposed. Street fights and domestic attacks were starting to take form as secrets of a slightly lesser nature were exposed one by one.

Then Finnick reached the place on the list where Elmira was slotted in.

"Elmira got a three for one deal, buying not only my company but that of Numi and Crimson as well. Let's just say loves hurts… whips, to be specific. I tried my best to spare my friends the worst of it, but Elmira kept buying Numi. As far as I know she did so on nine different occasions," Finnick narrowed his eyes. "But clever as Elmira claims to be she made one tactical error… she told me that she and her cousins used to train hop when they were teenagers and ride out to the districts. They'd make a sport out of killing a district child or two along the way. But family bonding only goes so far, because Elmira killed them both so she could get all the inheritance."

The peacekeepers come for Elmira and drag her away into the night, the women kicking and screaming. Her attempts at resisting arrest earn her a few bullets to the brain and, at the suggestion of two of the lowest ranking peacekeepers, her fancy manor set ablaze.

It's the first of what would be upwards of four hundred buildings set on fire that night.

Those same peacekeepers ended up splitting off from the rest of their comrades and making it to the city limits.

"Good luck making it back to Six Numi," the first one said.

"Same to you my mans, 'cept replace Six with Eight," Numi replied.

The first of the peacekeepers shook his head.

"Can't. My lady needs me over in Ten," Spool smirked from behind the cover of the helmet. "Lammy found an old castle in the outer parts of the district that she thinks might be a safe place for us to hide."

The pair parted with a fist bump. None of the screaming Capitol citizens milling around had any idea who the peacekeepers truly were.

* * *

 **#4**

Finnick grew rather used to being sold as the years went by. His body was his, but it truly did not belong to him. That was just the way things were.

Even so, it surprised him that he was literally used as part of the prize pot in a game of cards at the Mendez Casino. Whoever won the card game would have a night with him.

It was sick.

As could be expected it was a card game where cheating was all but inevitable. Fake hands of cards, rigged decks, cards that could change to something else and even a poison dart as a last ditch effort. Finnick could only watch, stumped by what he was seeing.

Even so, he would rather see this than what was going on in the arena right at this moment. His tribute was still alive, but he wasn't overly optimistic of his odds of winning. The Sixty Eighth Games were sure to go down in legend for having the hands down most evil tribute in history. It made Finnick sick.

But, that's another story…

After much dodgy dealing and quadruple handed cheating the overall winner of the card game turned out to be Fabius Westwing. Finnick knew of him in passing as one of the highest ranked peacekeepers within the Capitol.

As the night went on Finnick knew him as at least seventh place on the top ten leaderboard of monsters he'd met in his life.

It was violation. It was pure pain. Even some of the most sex driven citizens of the Capitol would have been shocked by what went on in Fabius' home that night… or, at the very least, would have had to blush over it. Some things just weren't suited for anywhere, whether behind closed doors or not.

Finnick had made it his rule to never break apart or let people know when they got to him. But Fabius truly tested his sheer resolve. The man was a monster, on and off his job.

It made it all the more sinister when, after the deed was done, Fabius made Finnick some admittedly great steak and let him join him in watching the newest episode of Fiona and Lawrence.

Again, Finnick refused payment. He would privately admit the pearl bracelet was a little tempting, but what were pearls compared to secrets?

As it turned out Fabius was more than happy to share a secret of his own. Turned out he'd knew that Titus going insane in the Sixty Sixth Games had been partly due to the head gamemaker despising District Six. Granted, she'd only started it through an order of an injection and the stress of the arena did the rest for her, but the damage was done.

Especially as, due to the way the Games had ended up ending, the awful ending was deemed her own fault and got her killed for it. Her family too, for good measure.

But Fabius was very fond of Finnick and decided to show him a little something extra.

He showed him the monitor room. A place with various screens hooked up to cameras across the city. All of them either bedrooms or bathrooms of people of all ages and sizes.

Finnick almost lost the steak he'd just eaten.

By the time Finnick came to reveal these secrets live on air there were already over a hundred and sixty confirmed deaths around the Capitol. The riots and mayhem were truly getting started now.

"You know Fabius Westwing as a legend among peacekeepers and somebody dedicated to the safety of those in the Capitol," Finnick smirked. "He didn't save head gamemaker Charlie Juniper from being killed by Snow nor her newborn triplets and her husband. Maybe that's why, for years now, he's had cameras in hundreds of homes, watching all of you sleeping, having sex or doing certain things generally performed within the bathroom."

Fabius doesn't manage to run ten steps before somebody – nobody ever works out who – shoots him in the foot.

He lasts two hours under torture before he finally dies, but even then the carnage inflicted to his body does not stop.

All the while people begin to smash their way into the buildings lining the street he'd been standing within and start ransacking the merchandise within.

Hundreds of thousands of Caps worth of products vanish into the night within the next fifteen minutes.

* * *

 **#5**

There were times where it was not one of the Capitol elite that bought Finnick for a night or two of depraved delight. Sometimes a common class citizen – by Capitol standards at least – would happen upon some money and decide to show off their wealth and purchase him instead.

This was, of course, no better than when the elite did it but Finnick came to see that those of a lesser background tended not to be into the more disgusted things those at the top were. Oftentimes they were so nervous and starstruck that they hardly ended up doing much besides making out.

In a twisted sense it was almost funny.

But the thing Finnick noticed more than anything was that, while few of the toxic elite would pay attention to those beneath them, those at the bottom were forever watching and making note of those that held sway in the heart of the dystopia.

They were privy to things that those in power wrongly assumed were private.

One such case of this was made evident during the Sixty Sixth Games. The TV in the corner of the room showed the shrimpy boy from Eleven running for his life from the ferocious boy from One across an icy lake, but that wasn't what held Finnick's attention.

It was how the women that booked him out, some nineteen year old club frequenter known as Bellandra Tul, had clearly never so much as kissed a guy before. She could barely kiss Finnick on the cheek without it being awkward for herself.

Finnick took it as more or less a night off from his usual forced duties and allowed himself to inwardly chuckle over his patron's nerves.

"You know, call me crazy, but I'm not so sure that's how making out works," Finnick teased.

"I, um, knew that," Bellandra tried to look confident. She failed. "I was, um… building up the… um… atmosphere…"

"You're a greenhorn," Finnick noted. It wasn't a question. "Not to worry, your secret is safe with me. I've got lots of secrets and not a single one has ever left my mouth."

"Really?" Bellandra asked, amazed.

"Oh, certainly. Oh the stories I could tell, but can't. I'd not betray my fans like that," Finnick shrugged in playful apology. "I'm just that nice I guess."

"You truly are," Bellandra said, torn between squeaky voiced anxiety and genuine dreaminess. "Hey, uh… I have secrets too. Really juicy ones!"

"Oh, do you now?" Finnick asked. He doubted it, but who was he to say no to free information?

"Really! You'll never guess what I overheard at the club the other night," Bellandra insisted, glancing around as if watching for any would-be eavesdroppers.

"Well, don't keep me in suspense," Finnick remarked, winking that trademark wink of his that would send any women into a fit of giggles. "I'm all ears."

Bellandra didn't keep him waiting.

Finnick was legitimately shocked.

So shocked, in fact, that he made certain to bring the secret up during the night he finally got his revenge on the Capitol. It had never been a matter of **if** he would bring it up, merely **when**.

The secret was revealed shortly after one of the largest banks of the Capitol had been set ablaze by petrol bombs.

"You know, it never did make any sense that those of a high standing assume those of a lower standing are nothing. The Flawless Estate over in District One did it and we all saw how that went. By the way, rest in peace Peridot," Finnick held a brief silence. "Back to the matter at hand, a particularly shy client patron of mine you might, or likely might not, know as Bellandra Tul once overheard quite the scandal in the bathroom of a club she frequents, the Screaming Tribute. She told me she heard Rancis Winger, our very own famous funk rocker, paying a hitman to kill each member of the much loved Four Mutts group. He deemed them a threat to his success. Incidentally, the remains of the Four Mutts were hidden in the Capitol's biggest park. Twenty paces to the east of the mermaid fountain."

Sure enough, once peacekeepers and civilians alike beeline to the named location, the skeletal remains of the P-Pop band are unearthed, several bones sporting the signs of damage inflicted during the grisly murder.

Rancis ends up little better. It had been his bad luck that he'd been performing for a crowd in a very popular venue at the time his secret was revealed, no way to reach the exit being possible at any time prior, and had a whole crowd coming for him from the moment his secret was out of the bag.

His desecrated corpse was deemed to have suffered water boarding from some sort of corrosive acid. Nobody knew who did it… or, rather, nobody was willing to admit it. It was forever a mystery if his killer survived the mayhem of the night or not.

Meanwhile the hitman that he'd hired ended up no better. He was among those butchered when the riots and destruction ended up triggering a grinder pod by accident, the system mistaking the Capitol crowd for rebels.

* * *

 **#6**

There were times where Finnick was not sold off to the highest bidder. At least, not in the normal way. Sometimes he would offer himself to somebody in return for a sizable donation.

Well, admittedly this only happened once ever. Much like the time Mizar sold himself in the Thirteenth Games, it was for the sake of the tribute he was mentoring.

Annie Cresta, the mail girl he'd grown quite the fancy for and friendship with over the years since his own victory.

With the poor girl shaking and twitching madly in a cave, having clearly lost herself in the realm of terror induced madness since her district partner and semi-bodyguard Swell had lost his head, Finnick knew she was going to need some support and soon.

He was several thousand caps short of buying her some highly effective anti-stress medication and an armoured vest.

There was only one thing for it.

The highest bidder ended up being a pair of bidders. Plural. Twins. A pair of gamemakers simply known to all as Valla and Verity. A pair whose shared lust for Finnick overrode the rules of their jobs

All Finnick had needed to do was take off his shirt.

It had been long, it had been harrowing, it had been shameful, it had even involved the use of chilli sauce and a telephone… it had all been worth it to ensure that Annie would have all of the equipment she needed for the coming days in the arena.

"You should buy her something buoyant as well," Valla purred. "That arena is gonna get flooded in a few days."

"Just like we are," Verity added, purring. "Be careful with that information, Mister Odair."

"You can trust me. What is this smile of mine if it's not trustworthy?" Finnick remarked, putting on the charm with practised ease. "See?"

"Such a wonderful man. So wasted in the districts," Verity mused.

"A man like this deserves better," Valla added. "If only you were the head gamemaker Finnick. You'd be so much better than Grizelda."

"Too bad the job is only for Capitol citizens," Verity said, sighing in disappointment.

Finnick wasn't about to let the chance to hear more important information slip through his fingers. "What's so bad about Grizelda?"

The twins did not hesitate to tell all to their favourite victor.

A few years later, around the time several cars had exploded once fire had reached the inner fuel tanks and left the area of the tribute parade desecrated, Finnick made sure to let the Capitol know the truth behind the 'beloved gamemaker' who held the top spot prior to Seneca Crane.

"Do you remember a pair of gamemakers called Valla and Verity? I suppose you wouldn't… they lost their jobs and their lives when they leaked some information to me about the flood late into the Seventieth Games. I don't doubt it was Grizelda who had them killed," Finnick paused to drink more water. "But it wasn't just the twins that Grizelda killed. Turns out that she had a habit of poisoning workers who didn't meet her extreme standards of work and cruelty. No less than forty deaths can be attributed to her. Rumour has it she killed her brother… after being 'with him' of course. You know what they say about family affairs."

Grizelda's brother ends up hanging himself. Grizelda meanwhile finds herself the victim of a swarm of relatives of the gamemakers she had killed throughout her career. She prepared herself for the inevitable attempt on her life by loading a machine gun. Alas, a clip of only fifty bullets did not save her from a horrific fate.

It did, however, kill a further twenty people.

All the while sirens began to ring across the city and squads of peacekeepers attempted to actually live up their names for once and quell the fighting. Alas, it was a job that was proving to be one hell of a hard task.

After all, approximately four thousand fist fights had broken out across the city.

* * *

 **#7**

Perhaps the greatest part of his revenge was something Finnick had sadly not lived to see nor hear about. But one could easily imagine how satisfied he would have been to hear it.

Finnick knew all about the way victors were whored out, he knew it well. How could he not? But one thing that had escaped him for years was a simple bit of knowledge… who had actually been the one to start the whole sick thing to begin with? Part of him logically assumed it was either Snow or Orion, but he had no hard proof. Just an assumption he saw no reason to doubt.

He learnt one his most valuable secrets during a night where Kollax Annaco, Minister of Law, bought Finnick for a night of sickening activities. It was after the first night of training leading up to the Seventy Fourth Hunger Games and Finnick was already in a shaken mood that his nephew Urchin was going into the arena.

Being near the vile minister did not make him feel any better.

It turned out, both during and after the activities involving fruits and vegetables, that Kollax was something of an alcoholic. Perhaps a lot more than being something of one… he was addicted to the stuff. So much in fact that when Finnick turned down the offer of a bar of solid gold and asked for a secret he blurted out the most sinister thing he knew.

"The victor prostitution ring was started by a victor," Kollax slurred, trying to recall exactly who it was. "Let's see… aha, it was Bronze. Yeah, he started it after Crimson one. He wanted to fuck her, thought she was hot and everything. He gave the idea to Snow and, well, they're best mates. Snow agreed and pitched it to Orion… that's why we have this lovely night together now…"

Kollax passed out mere seconds after that, but he'd told Finnick everything he needed to know.

It was a good thing Kollax passed out because this time Finnick was unable to control his emotions. He'd smashed up several chairs and a desk before calming down enough to try and make a plan with this information. He knew he could explain the damages as being results of the night's events – Kollax was drunk enough to probably buy it – but what could he do with what he had learnt? Outing Bronze would only get his family killed and not change anything.

Luckily for Finnick the ending of the Games that year and the rebellion that followed gave him the perfect chance to expose this secret.

"Kollax Yewter, our Minister of Law, is very much into creative uses of carrots and bananas. You can work that line of thought out from there," Finnick paused to shudder. "He's very much into beer as well, and you know what he let slip when he used me for the night? He said the entire practise of whoring out victors, of selling us lest our families be killed… it was all started by Bronze Marley. All out of his sick desire to use Crimson when she was a tribute so long ago."

Finnick looked dead on at the camera.

"Snow passed it to Orion and Orion approved it, but Bronze had the idea to begin with. All this suffering rests at his feet. Not just mine, but that of Crimson, Cecelia, Cashmere, Gloss, Numi, Porsche, Platinum, Porter, Blight and more besides," Finnick looked nothing short of formidable in his disgust. "I'll give all of my earthly possessions to whoever is able to bring that monster to justice."

While this incited further outrage and destruction within the Capitol, the real highlight was going on much further away. Indeed, it was happening in the ruins of what had been District Twelve.

Crimson had managed to escape the Capitol towards the start of the rebellion, but she'd not been the only one who did. Among the others that managed to get out before the victor purge began in earnest was Bronze.

He'd been pursuing his 'original conquest' for days and had finally narrowed the gap. The victors fought in the ruins of what had once been a grotty section of the Seam. Even in their age they both put up a solid fight. Bronze was left bruised, but he'd managed to get Crimson on the ground after a lengthy battle.

"Isn't this just like old times," the arrogant old man purred. "Just like that night in the hedge maze."

Crimson screamed for help as Bronze licked her cheek, ready to commit the deed that had become second nature to him over the years.

Unlike the thousands of other times she'd called for help… somebody heard.

Someone came.

Two someones, in fact. Crown and Harp had been amongst those who had gotten out of the Capitol and had been living like nomads in the meantime, always on the move to avoid capture. It had been pure luck alone they had been in the area at the time of Crimson and Bronze's battle.

Crown grabbed Bronze off of Crimson and practically judo flipped him to the ground. As the lifelong enemies began to brawl Harp helped Crimson move away from the fight.

"Thank you thank you thank you," Crimson whispered, sobbing into Harp's shoulder.

"Welcome. You welcome," Harp gently hugged Crimson towards her.

The women watched as the men battled under the moonlight. Harp lacked any combat ability and Crimson was out of breath, so for now Crown was on his own.

He was just fine.

After all, Bronze had lived a life of excess. Gourmet food, wines, party drugs and all the worst of temptations. All Crown had ever partaken in was candy, but even then he still made sure to look after himself.

That was why it was only a minute and a half before Crown landed one hell of a right hook into Bronze's face. Blood exploded from his nose and two teeth went flying out. The monster from One collapsed, knocked out and suddenly lacking any of the good looks he'd managed to keep into his old age.

Harp and Crimson made their way back over as Crown got to his feet.

"…Should we kill him?" Crown asked, speaking slowly for once.

"Yes," Crimson narrowed her eyes, darkness filling them. "I know just what to do with this man. He ruined my life. Time to ruin what's left of his…"

Crown and Harp could only watch Crimson with sympathy and wariness, wondering what the poor women was going to do to Bronze.

So harsh was her plan that, when Bronze regained consciousness, he near instantly pissed himself.

He'd had spikes hammered into his hands and feet.

He'd had his genitals cut apart.

He'd been tied to a wooden pole.

Wood, straw and other flammable things were set at the base of the pole.

Crimson held a lighter.

"No… no… please, no…" Bronze could barely speak through the agony.

"Die," Crimson hissed, placing the lighter a mere centimetre away from the bonfire. The wind was blowing hard, it would only be a matter of time until fire met straw.

Bronze was left all alone in the wreckage of the poorest district of Panem, screaming and pleading for his life. Crown and Harp left to stay by the edge of the district until Crimson was ready to join them. They did not think Bronze deserved their attention.

Meanwhile Crimson did not look away until the fire had consumed Bronze and burnt his body down to smouldering ash.

It was a long way until anything resembling safety and there was no guarantee she would survive the night, but for the first time in decades Crimson felt quite content.

All the while the chaos continued to get worse and worse within the Capitol. After all, the last secret was perhaps the most shocking of them all.

* * *

 **#8**

"And now, onto our good friend President Snow," Finnick idly began to crack his knuckles as he spoke. "Such as young man when he rose to power. Such a clever one to keep it. How, you must ask yourself, did he do it? One word. That's all you really need to know. _Poison_."

The Capitol watched in suspense as Finnick rattled off the names of several people who had leaked bits and pieces over the years which he'd managed to put together to form the answer. Snow, joined by some of his very nervous ministers, watched as Finnick continued to list names. Over forty all in all.

The ministers were, by now, terrified.

Snow just watched, rather nonplussed all things considered. On some level he was impressed by Finnick's display. On every other level he was making a mental note of who to have killed. Each person who let out a secret to Finnick would be getting a gruesome fate once the rebels were put down.

"He poisoned Orion and took his power. The crackdown on the districts afterwards was to cover what he himself did. In fact, Shunt's death is his fault too. It was intended for Isobel, so they say, but Shunt drank first. Though I have heard talk of Snow once hiring a man known only as The Grim to take out threats to himself, including Isobel and Mascara. Of course, Mascara killed The Grim first. His own family, killed by poison in their tea when they seemed a bit too hungry for power. Of all things, it got blamed on bad shellfish. Four suffered terribly for it."

It kept going like this for what seemed like forever, though in reality was not any longer than ten minutes. Gamemakers poisoned for failures, assuming they weren't fed to the woodchipper first. Political rivals dropping dead under mysterious means with unknown, non-existent district born assassins claiming their lives. Snow's own allies, with the notable exception of Bronze, dying off under similar means any time they seemed too powerful and full of desire for their own chance at the top.

Finnick reminded the audience of the roses Snow always wore. He mentioned the sores in his mouth. The fact they would never heal.

The fact Snow smelt like blood.

"Cut," said Finnick, once the last of his secrets had been exposed.

The feed died and the Capitol was left to tear itself apart throughout the night. Secret for secret, blood for blood, life for life.

By sunrise almost a quarter of the Capitol was destroyed and ten percent of the population had been utterly annihilated. It had taken everything the peacekeepers had to restore peace.

Of course, it was hardly peace. Not when many people had ended up with their lives seemingly ruined.

Even the common class children weren't exempted from this.

Just one case among many was a young romantic who sobbed near his burning home. He'd been orphaned during the chaos of the night when arsonists burnt his home and parents. All he had left was the clothes on his back and being shunted a step closer to his destiny… but that's another story.

* * *

"Rest in peace Finnick, you won't be forgotten," Peeta said.

"He'll be forever remembered in legend, no doubt about it," Katniss agreed.

The couple continued to walk down the street. It was mere moments before they came to the next face upon the sidewalk.

The terrified face of a small boy looked back at them, looking like he was midway through whimpering. His eyes were wide, his hair was particularly messy and his eyebrows seemed exceptionally thick.

"Spud Munroe. We both remember him," Peeta looked a little sickly all of a sudden. "Never saw his win coming, but really… nobody paid attention to him did he?"

"I doubt anybody did. Not when Titus was in the arena with him," Katniss shivered at the mention of the infamous boy's name. "Spud's win was pure luck. Right place, right time… right opponent."

* * *

Hope I did Finnick justice here guys. I'd say he's the victor people are most likely to have had lofty expectations for, and rightfully so. I mean, it's Finnick! I have to say, writing all that out and the secrets he leant had me feeling slightly ill at certain points. I guess that's what you'd call effective storytelling, or at least gross storytelling? In any case I liked how this one ended up going and I hope you guys do too. It was also fun how, due to the nature of the format, I was able to tie up a few loose ends of other victors and give future victors little cameos here and there. Hope you guys are ready for the next victor, the Games of a certain cannibal loom… and those of a victor with a very low training score…

* * *

 **Stats**

 **District 1:** Peridot Gaudy (8th Games), Crystal McCree (14th Games), Bronze Marley (19th Games), Crown Martins (24th Games), Dollar Dettwieller (32nd Games), Mascara Court (41st Games), Platinum Twist (44th Games), Gloss Lord (63rd Games), Cashmere Lord (64th Games)

 **District 2:** Baron Overwhill (4th Games), Runa Peace (7th Games), Olga Machete (10th Games), Rook Valiant (17th Games), Boulder Atherston (20th Games), Vercingetorix Carnby (25th Games), Dragon Batofel (27th Games), Rhyder Overwhill (39th Games), Mercy Gregor (46th Games), Brutus Gunn (49th Games), Lyme Rabe (51st Games), Enobaria Golding (62nd Games)

 **District 3:** Honorius Perthshire (5th Games), Pi Orbit (22nd Games), Beetee Latier (37th Games), Wiress Plummer (47th Games), Yohan Fairbane (58th Games)

 **District 4:** Museida Selkirk (3rd Games), Mags Flanagan (11th Games), Tide Luther (23rd Games), Librae Ogilvy (35th Games), Anchor Paddock (52nd Games), Finnick Odair (65th Games)

 **District 5:** Shunt Gaspar (12th Games), Isobel Sparks (18th Games), Crimson Flanders (29th Games), Porter Tripp (38th Games), Neon Erg (48th Games), Wattzon Holmes (55th Games), Arendellian Spinner III (57th Games)

 **District 6:** Chassis Macalister (31st Games), Bentley Corduroy (54th Games), Porsche London (56th Games)

 **District 7:** Pliny Aransio (2nd Games), Fir Buzz (9th Games), Jack Tylos (21st Games), Snag Nakamura (34th Games), Blight Jordan (53rd Games), Logger Barlow (61st Games)

 **District 8:** Woof Casino (16th Games), Paige Murphy (30th Games), Spool Nylon (42nd Games), Cecelia Mog (60th Games)

 **District 9:** Mizar Aldjoy (1st Games), Gwenith Rosebud (13th Games), Teff Withers (28th Games), Laurel Flamsteel (36th Games), Tabbock Summers (43rd Games), Trevy Vex (Escaped 55th Games)

 **District 10:** Stallion March (26th Games), Lammy Phyronix (40th Games), Pasture Gallows (59th Games)

 **District 11:** Bear Redfoot (15th Games), Seeder Howell (33rd Games), Chaff Mitchell (45th Games)

 **District 12:** Duke Saint-Rose (6th Games), Haymitch Abernathy (50th Games)


	67. Spud Munroe

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Hunger Games. They belong to Suzanne Collins.

 **Note:** You know what's fun about the Hunger Games? Well, maybe not 'fun', but still interesting? All the Games Katniss recalls in canon that have come and gone, like the one with the reptiles eating the careers' supplies (Gloss' Games here) or the one with the flood that washes away supplies (in my opinion this has to be Annie's). but, do we know for certain that these are all separate Games each time one is bought up? What if some were all from the same Games? To that end I give you Spud, the 'boy who won and only scored a 3'. What other mentioned Games are being explored in this blend of canon facts? Read on and find out!

* * *

"Everybody knows about these Games because of Titus. But, what do we really know about Spud?" Peeta asked. "I remember when he came to Twelve on his tour, but he didn't really say much."

"Best I can say is that he was really shy and scared of a lot of things. Honestly, who could blame him?" Katniss gazed down at Spud's imprinted face. "It's a wonder he wasn't more messed up from those Games."

"In fairness, he didn't really have to do a lot in order to win. He only had to run for his life," Peeta noted. "But really, he still faced the arena. Why should that count against him?"

"Why indeed," Katniss agreed. "I wonder if he managed to survive…"

The pair held a silence for Spud.

* * *

 **66** **th** **Annual Hunger Games**

 **Name:** Spud Munroe

 **Gender:** Male

 **District:** 11

 **Age:** 14

 **Kills:** 1

* * *

I sit bolt upright with a scream from the moment the cannon fires. This is the end! It's all over for me!

It's a minute before I realise the cannon was not meant for me. Somehow, against all the odds and what ought to be simple logic… _I'm still alive._

Nobody thought that I'd be able to make it past the first day, but now here I am on the nineteenth day in this tundra. I shiver, holding my coat tightly around myself. Even with all the layers of my tribute outfit it's still freezing. My breath comes out almost like a thick sort of fog right in front of me.

I just want to go home. Thoughts of home like my sisters sitting with me by the fire, Grandma in her rocking chair, Ma and Pa playing their banjos for us… it's enough to make me feel tears leaking down my face. As usual they become frozen solid halfway down my face.

I only spent the night in a thick bush because I had no other choice. I force myself to keep moving through the tundra, one step at a time. The very real possibility that each one could be my last has me shivering far worse than what the cold is able to do to me.

Surely I'm about to die…

I've always been a shrimp. Everybody back home knows it, they all say it enough. Last picked for any game, assuming I'm invited to play. The guy who can barely carry half his own weight in the orchids. The guy that can't stop crying.

I scored a three, mainly for running kinda fast and knowing a few edible plants. Seeder said it could have been worse, that I could have scored a one or a two and that, even then, Snag scored a one and Gwenith scored a two.

Too bad every other tribute managed at least a five, while three of the careers scored elevens. It was a miracle that I even made it out of the bloodbath. I remember being launched between the boys from One and Two.

I remember how they'd been leering at me, no doubt ready to tackle me from the moment the gong rang.

The only thing that saved me was when my district partner, Tomato, had dropped her token right before the gong rang. Some sort of wooden ball that used to belong to her Grandpa. The explosion took the careers off guard long enough for me to run for my life.

Since then I've been aimlessly wandering through the tundra… and crying. Mostly crying, really. But can you blame me? This is hell on Earth.

The only action I've been in was when the boy from Seven tried to kill me. He almost did too… I just got lucky that I tripped over, grabbed his jacket as I fell and accidentally threw him over the cliffside.

He was never the biggest problem for me to deal with. I can't help vomiting a little as I start my descent down the massive slope leading to where one of the frozen lakes might be.

There were six of us left by the time I fell asleep last night. Myself, the career boys from One and Four, the girl from Seven, the girl from Ten… and Titus, the boy from Six.

I let out the most pathetic of whines, glancing around for any sign of Titus. As big and scary as the careers are they're still nothing when compared to Titus. He entered the Games as a giant – eight feet and two inches to my four feet and seven inches – and won over the audience with his incredible power and amazing interview.

If only he'd stayed like that.

I have no idea what happened to him. Maybe it was the pressure of the Games, maybe it was a murder he witnessed, maybe the guilt of being a killer… I don't know what it was that turned him into what he is now.

I saw him four days ago, killing the small girl from Three. That was bad enough… but then he started gnawing on her fingers. Then her legs… then her guts. I got out of there before he could see me. Not that he would of. He seemed content to start munching on what might have been her kidneys.

So now we're all dealing with a cannibal of immense power… oh, and he's wearing armour that got sponsored to him back when he was sane.

I'm gonna die. I could never beat him in a fight, fair or not. I don't think I could beat _any_ of the tributes in a fight. I don't even think the boy from Seven counts.

I clutch my stomach, the feelings of hunger almost overpowering. A desperate glance to the sky is about all I can muster.

"Please, somebody send some food," I wipe nose on my sleeve. "Please…"

Nothing comes. Not like I'm shocked. I haven't had a single sponsor all Games. I've had to live off of weeds and snow. I guess tributes, like beggars, can't be choosers…

Part of me wonders if I should have tried to grab something from the cornucopia. I've avoided it since day one and I've got no idea if it's still filled with anything, but back at the start it was filled to the brim. I remember the containers of food stacked up high, the barrels filled with water bottles, the plentiful blankets and medical supplies…

…The spiked maces.

Come to think of it, maybe it's better I didn't go for it. Even if I had grabbed something I'd be an easy target for anybody strong enough to pick up those weapons. One look at the massive maces and I knew I'd be unable to use them at all.

I think even the girl from One had issues picking them up. I guess that's why she died on the third day.

Bear, my mentor, told me that my game wasn't to go into the cornucopia bloodbath and grab supplies. He claimed mine was just to run away and get some distance between myself than others. I've kept that distance up for weeks, but he never told me what I was meant to do next!

I think he believed I was much less likely to return home than Tomato. He wasn't wrong, up to when her wooden ball changed things around.

I wipe my tears away again. "Somebody help me…"

Only a vicious gust of wind answers me. Maybe the gamemakers are getting sick of my crying and begging. Is it my fault the arena is so scary?

The day is like most of the others since I've been here. Uneventful. I don't see any of the other four tributes at any time, only a few stains of blood on the snow that suggest one of them crossed this way a while ago.

It's lucky that I end up finding a cave. Luckier still that there's no mutts inside or any tributes. A perfect place to hide. Maybe if I tuck myself into the small crevice at the top of the cave wall nobody will see my crying. I'm probably gonna be sobbing well into the night.

I just wanna go home…

* * *

The sound of voices wake me up. I bite my hand to stop myself screaming, hard enough to draw a little blood. I muffle my whimper on my other hand, peering down at the ground of the cave.

It's the careers! No, no, no, no, no! Not them, not now!

They sit side by side, their backs towards my hiding place as they gaze at the blizzard outside. It looks like it's almost sunrise, not that it feels any warmer than nightfall. They seem to have a few bloodstains on their outfits, but otherwise they're just as strong as ever. Both have a spiked mace in hand, with a further three strapped to their belts. Their backpacks are bulging, surely filled with food and water.

I try not to sob, knowing I have no way to beat them. It's a year for the strong, not the underdogs.

"Alright, so who are we hunting down first? Boy from Six or girl from Ten?" the boy from One casually takes a bite out of a slice of toast. "Maybe they'll put up more of a fight than the girl from Seven did?"

"I didn't even realise heads had that much blood inside," the boy from Four says, not breaking his gaze from the snow. "Between them… I'd prefer the girl from Ten. But, aren't you forgetting the boy from Eleven?"

"Nope. He's barely even a tribute. He's the weakest person here and he's probably laying half-dead somewhere right now anyway," the boy from One probably rolls his eyes, not that I can tell. "He's pathetic. He's useless. He's the worst tribute of the year."

I can't really say he's wrong. All the same, the hurtful words have tears filling my eyes all over again.

"Fair point. Shall we be off then?" the boy from Four stands up. "With that freak from Six walking around it's probably better that we stick together."

"Got that right. We can battle it out once he's dead," the boy from One rises as well. "C'mon, let's get hunting."

The careers leave the cave and march out into the snow. They didn't even realise I was in the cave with them. Am I really that weak and forgettable?

Maybe being so weak isn't the worst of things? If I'm not worth killing then it might grant me a few more days before the inevitable.

* * *

I didn't sleep at all last night. How could I when I failed to find any shelter at all? It's nothing but an endless tundra no matter where I go.

Part of me is too scared to go into a cave even if I did find one. What if the careers were inside? I might not be worth their time, but they'd still kill me if they saw me. Only one's getting out, no matter what way you slice it.

I make my way up a snowy slope, keeping low to the ground. I try not to think about the careers smashing my head into a pulp as I make my way up.

I fail miserably. It's not long before I'm weeping again, thoughts of the iron spikes impacting my skull swirling in my head. Get out! Get out!

"AAAAARRRRGGGGHHHHHH!"

The screaming has me ducking and cowering into a ball. A cannon fires. Repulsive stretching and crunching sounds fill my ears. No, no, no…. please…

I'm not dead. Nothing's happening. But still the sound persists. I stand up, just to take a look around.

I wish I hadn't. It's hard to see over the thick blizzard, but there's no mistaking the large form of Titus at the bottom of a massive snow bank. He's covered in blood, his head right down on the bloodied chest of the tribute below him. The grey tribute outfit removes any doubt who it is – the girl from Ten.

I can't breathe. I'm shaking madly as I back away from Titus, hoping beyond hope he won't see me… or smell me. What if he can smell blood, or fear? I've heard of creatures that can do that. Who's to say that Titus, in his current state, cannot do that too?

Titus lets out a beastly howl as he spasms, sparks flickering off of him for a moment. He collapses on his back, still twitching, as the hovercraft comes down for the body.

I don't question this oddity. I run for my life!

I run until my legs feel like they're on fire. Only when I collapse at the base of a small mountain do I finally let myself rest.

It's the perfect time to start crying all over again. It's just me, Titus and the careers. Any remote hope of me going home died with the girl from Ten. Those three would easily kill me in a fight!

"I wanna go home… please…" of course, I know that nobody will listen.

There's no hope in Panem. The whole place is just one cruel cursed hell.

* * *

Day twenty one. Three weeks. Somehow… I'm still alive.

I don't understand how I've managed to last this long. How much longer will my luck hold out before I'm forced into a fight? Sooner or later one of the others will find me. Whether it's a career or Titus, the end result is going to _**hurt**_ …

Is it really luck when I'm going to die either way? No way are they going to let this last much longer, I'll surely be dead within three days. I awoke to the sounds of a massive avalanche, so surely the gamemakers are starting to interfere. No cannons means they're only going to keep it going.

Who will be their most likely target to pick on first? Probably the most useless tribute in the Games! I could plead for hours, insisting it's not my fault I came into the world early, that I've always been small, but to my knowledge pleading never helped any of the dead tributes. How many have there been now? Over a thousand five hundred at least.

Aimless wandering ends up leading me to a rocky peak above a massive acre of snow and scattered frozen trees. It's about as far from looking like District Eleven as is possible.

Just three more to go and I'll be home… or I would be in a fairer world.

Growling has my screaming and on my knees faster than I would have thought possible. Please no, please no! Mercy! Save me! Somebody help me!

I dare to peak open when nothing happens. Some foolish part of my further dares to glance down at the acre below me. I can't hold back my vomit, though it's mainly just water. I don't think I've eaten more than a single weed in thirty hours.

Titus looms over the boy from Four, his tomato red tribute outfit now soaked in blood both fresh and dry. His face and hair are all caked in the stuff. The fisher boy is being crushed under the weight of his much bigger opponent, scrambling to reach for his fallen weapons.

He spots me when Titus' teeth are a mere inch from his throat.

"Eleven! Help me!" in that moment the mighty dock hand sounds about as weak and helpless as I do.

Alas, helping him is beyond my power. I have no power, period. I'd only get myself killed if I went down there.

Titus sinks his teeth in and tears out a massive strand of flesh and muscle from the once mighty career. I don't see anything else after that.

By then I'm already racing off through the snowfall, screaming until my throat burns. The cannon fires and jolts me into running and screaming even more.

Just two left, and it just had to be the strongest career and the boy that lost his mind.

I'm dead, I'm dead, I'm dead, I'm dead, I'm dead, I'm dead, I'm dead, I'm dead, I'm dead, I'm dead…

* * *

I sit on a large snowy boulder, clutching at my empty stomach. Whether it's a spiked mace or starvation I'm certain to meet my end soon. It's just a matter of time.

I count down my final minutes, gazing at the snowfall and the stars beyond it. When you let yourself pretend it's real and that you're not in what is basically an artificial prison… this place is actually beautiful. Too cold for my liking, but other than that it's not so bad. What a lovely view.

A view that will likely be the final thing I see other than a massive tribute bringing either a mace or their teeth down onto me.

I think I can see how this is going to go. I might be weak, cowardly, pitiful, mopey, pathetic… I'm not sure where I was going with this…

I watch the Games every year… I know the trends of what they like to make happen or at least nudge things towards. They'll get me out of the way, set up the boy from One as some kind of a dashing hero… then they'll make sure he cuts down Titus like an animal. Titus is already a monster, they don't need to edit anything.

It's just a matter of time now.

"Just get it over with…" I sniffle, wiping away thick salty tears. "I just want to go home… I just want it to end…"

Ten minutes pass as I take in all of the sights. The blizzard, the moonlight glinting off of the snow, the thousands of stars… I pause, peering into the darkness. What is that…?

I yelp, dazed from the light that dazzles my eyes. By the time I blink away the aching the boy from One is only fifteen steps away from me, a bloodstained spiked mace clutched in his right hand and a flashlight in his left.

"Hello Eleven," his grin stretches across his face. "End of the line. Honestly, I'm amazed you even lasted this long, you really-HEY! Get back here!"

I don't stick around to listen to his killing monologue. I turn and run for my life down the steep snowy hill, screaming shrilly. With every step my screaming and sobbing get louder and the pain of my throat only gets more and more unbearable.

This is it, I'm dead. All he has to do is narrow the gap and hit me once. I can't fight him, I can't use these weapons. I'm dead, I'm dead! It's the end!

"Ma! Pa! Pumpkin! Crow!" I sob out the name of each member of my family. "Don't look!"

I hear the boy from One yelling in alarm. He slips over, tumbling down to the base of the hill. He briefly overtakes me, landing in a painful heap. He gets back up mere seconds after I whizz past him, still screaming and flailing my arms behind me.

"Get back here! Nowhere to run now shrimp!"

He ditches his flashlight, choosing to hold a mace in both hands. Fuck, now he's gonna torture me! Why did I run? Why didn't I just accept the inevitable? A few extra minutes isn't worth torture!

I almost slip over the ice under my feet. A frozen lake? Just what I needed, now I won't even be able to run away. My one ability, if it even counts as one, is gone. No, no, no!

I'm sent slipping, sliding and skidding across the lake. It's almost impossible to stand on the ice, let alone run on it. The boy from One is moving slower now, but he's keeping his balance better than me. He smirks at me as he begins to narrow the gap.

"Get a cannon ready!" he says to the sky, laughing.

I fall to the ground, sliding a few feet until I come to a stop. This is it, this is the end. I cover my face, bawling like a baby as the boy from One stomps his way over with his maces raised overhead.

He's about three meters away when he vanishes. It takes me a moment to work out what just happened. How could he possibly disappear?

He didn't. He fell through the ice. He screams and shouts, fighting for his life in the icy water. He eyes me in equal parts hatred and terror. He tries to strike me, but his maces have sunk under the water and I'm safely out of range.

"You bastard! You bastard!" he struggles to keep himself afloat. "You rat!"

"What… what…" I can barely speak.

"You little shrimp… fucking trap… you tricked… me…!" his struggling is getting more desperate and he's starting to sink. His skin is horribly pale.

"…Tricked you?" I start to scoot backwards from the dying career. "I didn't know… I mean…"

I gulp, shrinking back under his look of pure hatred, disbelief… and, is that humiliation there as well?

"You didn't do this on purpose?!" he screams, roaring for the last time. "Useless! Fucking… useless.. can't even… believe this… lucky… asshole…"

I don't stick around to listen to him any longer. I scamper off into the darkness, the sounds of struggling behind me getting quieter and quiet until… it's only silence.

The cannon has me flinching and soon I'm sniffling all over again. I should be happy to still be alive to hear it. It means all of the careers are finally dead.

It means just one more tribute stands between me and going home.

Too bad that tribute is Titus. In what reality could I possible beat him? He's huge and a savage, I'm tiny and a coward. It's no contest. He's got this in the bag.

I wonder what death is like. I wonder what Titus' victory tour will be like.

I end up losing the will to keep running. I simply curl up at the base of a large tree and cry myself to sleep, except sleep isn't coming.

I'm too scared to sleep. He'll be hunting me down any time now.

He'll smell my blood from miles away!

He'll kill me!

He'll eat me…

* * *

The sun rises on the twenty second day. I've lost all hope and any motivation to keep moving at this point. I remain where I am, staring up at the sunrise beyond the thick snow clouds.

It's not the worst final morning I could have lived to see. Better this than gloomy grey clouds or an outright storm. It's almost peaceful.

No sign of Titus yet, but it's surely just a matter of time now. Every little bit of movement has me darting my eyes over to what I always assume to be my cannibal adversary… but no, it's always just snow or occasionally a harmless white rabbit.

I sit up when a massive rumble echoes through the valley. …Nothing special. Just an avalanche roughly a mile to my right. Maybe they're herding Titus this way. Maybe they're just adding some atmosphere to the quiet day.

Maybe they're trying to scare me. Joke's on them… I don't think I can be any _more_ scared than I already am. It's hard to scare those that have finally had the good sense to give up and just lay down to await death.

I shake my head, laying back down. Can't be more than a few minutes now.

A boom echoes across the tundra. I barely dare to breath or even blink, slowly sitting up. I'm starting to shake all over.

"What…"

The boom – a **cannon** – echoes away into silence. The snowfall stops and the sky begins to clear up. All that remains is a beautiful dawn sky, the golden rays of morning sunshine finally peaking through the once thick clouds.

I sit, basked in the glow of golden light. How comically shocked must I look? This has to be a mistake… it can't be possible… no way is this real… did I just…

…win?

The trumpets begin to play across the arena. There's no mistaking them for anything other than what they are – the traditional sound that plays as soon as the victor of the Hunger Games has been confirmed.

I'm shaking so much that I find it hard to stand on my own two feet. What… how… this can't be happening… is it?

It is! The hovercraft is descending down from the sky, the ladder lowering to collect me from my horrifying prison.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, may I present the victor of the Sixty Sixth Hunger Games! Spud Munroe from District Eleven!"

…It's time to go home.

* * *

When I was first taken out of the arena back when I won the Hunger Games as a young boy, I'd always thought I just got incredibly lucky. I mean, it was a pure fluke I'd managed to get out of the bloodbath, let alone avoid the other tributes for so long – and the one tribute I had to fight, the boy from Seven, only failed to kill me by his own bad luck and my own good luck. Add in the careers failing to notice me in that cave, being separated by an avalanche and then meeting their ends soon afterwards and it gets crazy amounts of lucky. Conclude it with Titus being killed by an avalanche and you have a story that involves so much luck you'd be unable to believe it. Too good to be true and all that.

It was and it wasn't.

Some of it truly was luck. Everything up to the careers being separated was just me getting lucky as hell. After that, well, the waters begin to get a little murky.

I found out from Bear that the gamemakers had tried to trip me on that snowy slope with a rock they spawned into the arena. Something to let the boy from One kill me quickly as the Games were starting to get a bit too drawn out. The only thing that saved me was that the gamemaker told to do that pressed the wrong button. He corrected his mistake, but by then I was past it and he tripped over the career boy.

One mistake and a single second was all it took to change everything.

They had wanted the boy from One to be the victor, just as I had theorised around that time. Under any normal circumstances the mistake would have been meaningless and he'd have killed me anyway. They could have just laughed it off over a drink or something.

Of all places in the arena I could have ran, I ended up accidentally running towards the frozen lake and… well, everybody knows the story from there. The boy they wanted to win was dead and it was down to useless me and Titus.

Titus could not be allowed to win. He was insane, a lunatic, mad beyond any hope of recovery.

I was deemed the less objectional winner by default and so, because according to fight simulations I lost one hundred percent of the time against him, they rigged an avalanche to get rid of Titus and ensure the winner was at least sane.

I won because they let me. Because it was rigged. I didn't do anything to really earn or deserve it.

That brings me to where I am now. Seated beside Bear as the Quell's bloodbath comes to an end. Once again, I got lucky. It could have easily been me that got reaped instead of Chaff.

I guess they just want people to forget about me. Having me in the spotlight, even if I died, might have been too much to be worth it. Nobody likes talking about my Games after all.

It's been a terrible morning. Forced to watch several of my friends end up dead – Bentley got his throat slashed by Cashmere's scimitar, Cecelia was stabbed in the back with a short sword by Enobaria and Laurel was stabbed by Brutus deadly word – and, as per every time I've had to mentor, I had to see my tribute die.

Poor Seeder. She died from the moment that bastard Gloss smashed a spiked mace over her head. I wonder if they put that weapon there to taunt me in some way.

' _This was meant to be your fate. You only avoided it because Titus was somehow worse.'_

I haven't had a second to properly grieve over the death of my friends. Not when Anchor's already starting on me. He was always one of the ones who hated me the most, somehow even more than Olga and Enobaria ever did.

They hate me for being rigged into winning. Apparently it goes against the integrity of the Games. My victory was a mistake, a fluke, I should be dead and Anchor makes this clear every year.

I won't apologise for being alive.

"You should've been in that quell. Should've had the good sense to volunteer and be a man for once in your damn life," he pauses to knock back a mouthful of beer. "You were always a mistake. A fluke."

"I won the Games, same as anybody else did. The goal is not to get the most kills, just be the last one. I did that," I try to leer, but I've never been able to look at Anchor and not feel afraid. He killed his own district partner, a girl he'd manipulated for years. He's a shark all the way. "I think I did a bit more than Pliny, may she rest in peace, and you never harassed her."

"She wasn't rigged into winning. They say she technically overcame rigging. You won because some other boy lost his mind," he scoffs, pouring himself another drink. "Useless tribute, useless victor, useless mentor if Seeder's broken head is anything to go by."

"Shut up!" I ball my small fists, trying to snarl at Anchor. He looks amused, nothing more. "At least I have a heart, integrity… I didn't kill my own district partner. I didn't cross the lines you did."

"That's my point. I played the Games like a real victor, you failed and cried every step of the way," he glances over to where the victors from Two sit. "Back me up here Dragon, he did didn't he?"

"Can't disagree," Dragon says, one eye leering at me and the other focused on the screen that shows Arendellian running through the jungle. "Boy's weak."

"Enough!" Bear rises up to his feet, glaring at the careers. His glare, a leftover thing from what he claims to have been his brutal youth, is a lot more effective. "I can handle this Spud. Go take a breather, get some fresh air. Maybe gather up some sponsors."

I know a blatant way to get me out of the line of fire when I hear it. "Sure thing Bear. Anything you think Chaff might need?"

"Something he can put over his stump. Let's say a prosthetic hand," he gestures to the door. "Don't worry, I can handle this alone for now. I've done it for decades, I can do it one more time."

"I'll help him too," Gwenith says, sitting down beside Bear.

They were never as obvious as Spool and Lammy were but it's clear to all that Bear and Gwenith have had a thing for each other for many years now. I wonder if they'll live long enough to act on it. Spool and Lammy did, so why not them?

Not like we have anything beside mentoring to look forward to…

"No need to hurry back," Bear adds as I reach the door. "You'll only need to be quick when things get explosive. Watch the screens."

"I always do. See you later Bear."

* * *

Another day, another lack of much sponsor interest.

It's good to see that Chaff is still alive by the time of the third day. Just seven more to go and he'll be back home with us, the victor of victors.

After that, it'll be the same old same old. I got lucky to win my own Games, but this is hardly living. It's just… not dying. I've come to see it's not the same thing.

Almost every sponsor I've spoken to has ignored me and those that did speak to me have just claimed Chaff is 'a bottom twenty victor'. They only have eyes for Finnick, Brutus, Enobaria and the pair from Twelve. Chaff's just some extra guy they've forgotten about.

I'm not sure how. He's not taken a scratch yet, even after braving the insect time sector and the one with the monkey mutts. All this and the careers haven't found him yet. Nobody has.

"Look, look!" some Capitol women points to one of the massive screens. "Death! Death! Death! Look!"

I don't know why I looked. You'd think common sense would rule that I'd look the other way – literally _any_ other way – but no, I look just in time to see Brutus stab Chaff in the chest with a serrated dagger. He follows up with two more stabs and a kick, my friend left crumpled on the floor.

I drop to my knees, starting to sob without restraint. All around me the Capitol citizens cheer, coo, clink glasses and sometimes sob. The only sobs come from those who tear up their now worthless betting slips.

Savages, the lot of them. It's like I'm surrounded by mutts or even a few dozen clones of Titus. They're all mad!

The screen continues to show the action playing out. I can't take any pleasure when Brutus gets his neck broken by Peeta, not when the grief over my lost friend is all too much to bare. From there it's a frenzy. Johanna and Enobaria duel, Beetee lays helpless after taking a knife to his back, Peeta run through the jungle screaming for Katniss…

And Katniss, she looks ready to send an arrow into Finnick's heart. The crowd screams, either egging her on or cheering for Finnick to kill her first.

"Remember who the real enemy is," Finnick says.

A few moments pass as Katniss stares Finnick down. She's torn between him and the sky. What's she doing?

"Katniss, get away from that tree!"

She doesn't. I'm left stumped alongside the crowd around me as Katniss grabs the wire around the lightning tree. She ties it to her arrow and pulls back the bowstring as far as it can go.

Finnick runs towards her, about as frantic as I was in my own Games. "Katniss! Get away from that tree!"

The arrow is sent flying a moment before the lighting tree blasts Katniss into the air and off into the overgrowth. Finnick is knocked back as well.

I watch, amazed, as the arrow hits the forcefield with a trail of lightning travelling up the wire.

What the hell?! What… how… what did she just **do**!?

The screen shows the forcefield breaking down and the arena starting to fall apart for all of three seconds. After that the screen dies out, only the Capitol insignia and the word 'technical difficulties' displayed below it.

The crowd began to howl, whine and throw a collective tantrum. They shout for the Games to come back on, seemingly unable to comprehend that something has gone wrong.

A massive, droning siren begins to wail across the city only a moment later. It reminds me of old air raid sirens… shit, this must be serious.

"Attention citizens! Please return to your homes by order of President Snow! This is a mandatory order! Thank you for your cooperation!"

The order begins to repeat in an endless cycle, citizens running to and fro around me. Some whine over the Games being ruined, some are screaming in panic, many are just confused.

I'm one of the ones panicking. Suddenly it's like I'm back in the arena all over again, one that's as large as the Capitol. Danger is everywhere. Something big and bad just went down…

…Bear knew this was coming.

Is he alive? Did anybody else know what was going on?

For years now victors, tributes and normal district citizens alike have been hoping for change and a second chance at overthrowing the Capitol. Is this what they've been hoping for… is this finally **happening**?

I resolve to work all that out another day. For now, I'm getting the hell out of here! I waste no time running away into the night, searching for a place to hide.

…There's one place I think might work.

Surely they would never think to check there… right?

Only one way to find out.

* * *

Katniss and Peeta concluded their silence for the luckiest victor in recent memory and continued their walk down the street. By now they could see their destination, The Golden Goose, not overly far ahead of them.

They quickly came to the imprinted face of the Sixty Seventh figure, that of a spoiled and smug looking young man. His eyes seemed to hold a mixture of superiority and contempt and his mouth curled into some mixture of an aloof smile and a cocky sneer. His hair was trimmed short, styled to perfection.

"The cavalier career himself," Katniss muttered. "Augustus Braun."

"Maybe he's like Cashmere and Gloss," Peeta said, optimistically. "Maybe there was more to him than we ever saw back in Twelve?"

Katniss hoped Peeta was right.

* * *

There we have it, Spud's Games were four in one – Titus, spiked maces, the girl who dropped her token and, of course, the boy who scored a 3. Putting all of those things together makes it seem like Spud would have little way to win (well, all of them besides the dropped ball that is) but it occurs to me that the gamemakers can rig things at will. Why not rig him into the victory… and for good measure, not because he is good but because the other person is even worse! Haha! It is never at any point stated in canon what Titus' rank was when the canon avalanche killed him (but we can assume he ranked highly due to making several kills and how it'd take time for somebody to go insane in most cases)… so, why not have him place 2nd and Spud therefore be rigged into victory, even when the gamemakers do not want that either? Gotta love a lose/lose situation befalling those on the side of evil, haha. Stay tuned for more!

* * *

 **Stats**

 **District 1:** Peridot Gaudy (8th Games), Crystal McCree (14th Games), Bronze Marley (19th Games), Crown Martins (24th Games), Dollar Dettwieller (32nd Games), Mascara Court (41st Games), Platinum Twist (44th Games), Gloss Lord (63rd Games), Cashmere Lord (64th Games)

 **District 2:** Baron Overwhill (4th Games), Runa Peace (7th Games), Olga Machete (10th Games), Rook Valiant (17th Games), Boulder Atherston (20th Games), Vercingetorix Carnby (25th Games), Dragon Batofel (27th Games), Rhyder Overwhill (39th Games), Mercy Gregor (46th Games), Brutus Gunn (49th Games), Lyme Rabe (51st Games), Enobaria Golding (62nd Games)

 **District 3:** Honorius Perthshire (5th Games), Pi Orbit (22nd Games), Beetee Latier (37th Games), Wiress Plummer (47th Games), Yohan Fairbane (58th Games)

 **District 4:** Museida Selkirk (3rd Games), Mags Flanagan (11th Games), Tide Luther (23rd Games), Librae Ogilvy (35th Games), Anchor Paddock (52nd Games), Finnick Odair (65th Games)

 **District 5:** Shunt Gaspar (12th Games), Isobel Sparks (18th Games), Crimson Flanders (29th Games), Porter Tripp (38th Games), Neon Erg (48th Games), Wattzon Holmes (55th Games), Arendellian Spinner III (57th Games)

 **District 6:** Chassis Macalister (31st Games), Bentley Corduroy (54th Games), Porsche London (56th Games)

 **District 7:** Pliny Aransio (2nd Games), Fir Buzz (9th Games), Jack Tylos (21st Games), Snag Nakamura (34th Games), Blight Jordan (53rd Games), Logger Barlow (61st Games)

 **District 8:** Woof Casino (16th Games), Paige Murphy (30th Games), Spool Nylon (42nd Games), Cecelia Mog (60th Games)

 **District 9:** Mizar Aldjoy (1st Games), Gwenith Rosebud (13th Games), Teff Withers (28th Games), Laurel Flamsteel (36th Games), Tabbock Summers (43rd Games), Trevy Vex (Escaped 55th Games)

 **District 10:** Stallion March (26th Games), Lammy Phyronix (40th Games), Pasture Gallows (59th Games)

 **District 11:** Bear Redfoot (15th Games), Seeder Howell (33rd Games), Chaff Mitchell (45th Games), Spud Munroe (66th Games)

 **District 12:** Duke Saint-Rose (6th Games), Haymitch Abernathy (50th Games)


	68. Augustus Braun

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Hunger Games. They belong to Suzanne Collins.

 **Note:** Time for another career and a canon to boot! Well, sort of? You'd only know of this guy through the Capitol Couture supplementary materials, much like Porter, and what we learn is… not that much, really? Only that Augustus is referred to as the 'cavalier career' and 'Panem's favourite son' who was highly popular. Standard fair for a career, really, don't you think? I feel like this is probably propoganda honestly? Worry not, for I worked out a more or less coherent idea for Augustus (and it's better than the crappy beta idea which I'll elaborate on at the end of the chapter, haha). Enjoy guys!

* * *

Katniss and Peeta stood together, observing the imprinted face of the so-called Cavalier career. It was a moment before either said anything.

"Why do you think they called him that. The 'cavalier career'. I always thought it sounded condescending, though whether to him or us I'm not sure," Katniss paused, considering the face of District One's final victor. "

"Hard to say. I remember how he looked at us like we were animals when his tour brought him to Twelve," Peeta said, briefly frowning at the memory. "But, to be fair, a lot of the tributes in that year were… well, let's not beat around the bush. They were unpleasant. Augustus may have just been seen as better in comparison, for a given definition of 'better'."

"I guess that kind of makes sense. This was a while ago, so maybe he matured?" Katniss said. "I mean, people change. Even murderers like us."

"Exactly," Peeta agreed. "For better or worse. That's the part that tends to vary."

Katniss and Peeta ceased talking, starting to hold a respectful silence for the cavalier career.

* * *

 **67** **th** **Annual Hunger Games**

 **Name:** Augustus Braun

 **Gender:** Male

 **District:** 1

 **Age:** 18

 **Kills:** 8

* * *

It had been long.

It had been brutal.

It was been bloody.

But, after fourteen harsh days in the arena, Augustus was ready to go home triumphant to the district he loved so very much. One final swing of his sword and his last opponent – the outlier recruit from Ten, a young man known as Steer – fell to the ground clutching a horrible wound.

One more slash and the cannon boomed.

Augustus wheezed and gasped for air, thoroughly worn out by the final battle. His work-outs that came with all his years of training were exhausting, of course, but the grand finale of his Games put all of that to shame.

After all, most would claim just fighting one person to the death was hard… so, logically, fighting four of them at once would be ridiculously hard. Throw in the heat of the arena, one set inside of a volcano, and you had the hardest fight of a tribute's life ready to go.

Augustus continued to pant, but soon he couldn't help smirking in victory. He surveyed the dead, broken bodies of the other three careers and Steer, satisfied that he'd done his district proud and set himself up for the good life.

He'd go down in legends.

The only issue he faced, really, had been the attitudes of all the other tributes. From his own district partner Pyrite down to the miner kids from Twelve who had died first and second respectively… they'd be jerks, even by Augustus' standards. It was somewhat strange if the career were being perfectly honest.

But, such were the Games – full of savages. But now only he was left and the riches, glory and fame were all his to enjoy. He couldn't help laughing as he boarded the hovercraft back to the Capitol. He'd enjoyed the experience so much that he couldn't help wishing he could win the Games a second time.

Augustus Braun, Victor of Victors. It had a nice ring to it.

Though maybe for his second Games he'd ask for less mutts. The lava bats and the stone dragon had been annoying.

His smugness and delight didn't come to a stop even as the train was pulling into the station of District One. Why would he feel bad about anything? He was coming home to a hero's welcome, having been the one to bring his district's victor count into double digits.

"You seem pretty pleased with yourself," his mentor, Peridot, noted.

"Why wouldn't I be? I won," Augustus smirked, chuckling softly. "Right here, right now, I feel ready for absolutely anything."

Peridot, hair white like snow and her skin showing some wrinkles of her elderly age, looked at Augustus, as if checking he were sure of this.

"Are you really? I'll have you know that comic book club at the victor village is having its next meeting in a week – attendance is _mandatory_ – and you're expected to take part in it," Peridot dropped her wry smirk to look more serious. "Also, you're a mentor now and you need to be ready for it - it's tough. Look out there Augustus."

Peridot gestured to District One, a mere train wall away from them.

"You'll have to help the district now," Peridot said, suddenly firm. "You'll have to mentor other tributes into being the next generation of victors in order to keep our district afloat. Without victors we will one day lack volunteers, and then we'll have to start sending untrained kids into the Games. Crown's win was not unwelcome, but he was a fluke. A happy accident. We cannot count on those happy accidents being common, so we need volunteers. I need to know that, once I'm gone soon enough, you'll cover for me and keep those children safe and on the path to success, in the arena and out."

Augustus took one look at the cheering crowd, all gathered to greet their newest victor for his homecoming, and began to grin even wider.

"Consider it done. They'll be in very good hands. I'll be the best mentor there ever was. It'd be a crime if I didn't help others enjoy the rewards of victory with me," Augustus heartily laughed. "Hell, while we're on the subject, I'll see if I can get us three victors in a row. We managed two in a row before now, what's one more on top of that?"

Peridot couldn't help but smile. "Seems like the district will be in good hands. After your games, I'm sure you can accomplish that, Augustus."

"Thanks Miss Gaudy," Augustus said, for once sounding sincere and not arrogant at all.

That, of course, changed when the train door opened, and he leapt out onto the platform.

He then leapt off the platform and began to crowd surf.

"Hunger Games forever!" Augustus exclaimed, laughing like a total loon.

* * *

 **MENTORING THROUGH THE YEARS: STARRING AUGUSTUS BRAUN**

* * *

 **THE SIXTY EIGHTH HUNGER GAMES**

It was his first year of being a mentor and Augustus was ready to bring home a victor on his first try. Sure, one could argue that only Gloss had ever managed to actually achieve this – and Augustus felt he had the unfair advantage of knowing his tribute, his twin sister, all his life – but if crybaby tributes from Twelve could win (well, apparently) then why not mentors getting victors on their first attempt?

Augustus had been assigned to mentor the female tribute that year, a shorter than average girl called Emblem. She made up for shorter height with sheer nerve and amazing skills with shurikens.

Of course, the fact she and Augustus had hit things off so well certainly hadn't hurt. It only made Augustus all the more dedicated to bring her home.

That had been the plan at least, but then it all went horribly wrong. It turned out there was something of an irregularity in the arena that year.

 **A serial killer**.

After the bloodbath had wiped out eight tributes Augustus had settled in, drink in hand, ready to act at a moment's notice if Emblem needed anything. Platinum, seated beside him and carefully watching her own tribute – a rich, deadly boy called Grand – was similarly ready for anything. Sure, she wasn't what Augustus would call a powerful victor or anything, but she had a good brain in there. She was alright.

But that's when things took a turn for the worst.

Of the sixteen who survived the bloodbath, eleven of the fifteen possible kills were all performed by one sick individual from District Three. Lothar had seemed harmless enough pre-Games, if a little oddball, but that changed when the fourth day arrived.

One moment Emblem had been split from the group after getting lost in the thick mist of the forest.

The next moment she'd been yanked into the trees by a vine snare.

She was gagged and cut to pieces by a razor blade over the next ten hours. Augustus, after the fact, had little memory of his actions from this time period. All of his screaming, vomiting and recoils of terror made it hard to remember specific moments.

All he knew for sure was that poor Emblem died a horrific death and that he had failed to bring a tribute home on his first try. He sat, dismayed and physically ill, beside Platinum for much of the remainder of the Games. He felt like shit.

"Don't feel too bad. There was nothing you could have done," Platinum said, gently. "You did your best for her."

"My best should have bought her back home," Augustus grumbled, pausing to gag sickly. "I must have made a mistake somewhere… whatever, this whole year was a mistake. Next time I'll bring one back."

"Best of luck. I think the other mentor next year will be Bronze, so… just be careful around him," Platinum said, a distinct tone of warning in her voice. "He's not the nicest of victors."

The field of tributes was whittled down one by one, the alliance of the careers and that of the so called Big Brothers suffering losses as the days went by. Grand ended up suffering even worse than Emblem had. Loather did not take kindly to the fact Grand managed to land the tiniest of hits on him before he was bound and gagged.

Platinum left the mentoring room screaming.

She wasn't the only one who did. Gwenith, Paige, Bentley, Lammy and even Rook were soon running off, holding back their dinners. Some who stayed, like Spool and Boulder, ended up being sick into buckets.

"Good lord!" Boulder yelled between mouthfuls of vomit.

Laurel and Pasture were both reduced to sobbing when their tributes died. Not just your average cry, but rather weeping of complete and utter heartbreak. Their tributes had, after all, been family members of theirs who had been rigged into the Games. They ended up leaving together to cry it out where nobody was watching them.

Leaving to be alone together and share their grief would create a friendship very beneficial for a baker boy several years later.

It was shortly after Lothar had absolutely butchered the girl from Two that Runa was unable to take anymore. She clutched her chest, falling to the ground suffering a heart attack from the sheer extremes of terror and revulsion she was witness to. She was quickly taken away by peacekeepers and medics, Baron managing to keep pace beside them with Rhyder right behind him.

She'd live, but she'd likely be bedridden and weak for a while. It was clear she didn't have overly long left, and that her time was even smaller thanks to witnessing Lothar's rampage.

Augustus didn't know why he even bothered to stick around to watch the Games to the very end. Twenty days of horror and what did he have to show for it? A tribute who died horribly and only enough time to send down a single sponsor parachute.

Maybe he just wanted to watch Lothar, to pick out what weaknesses he may have. Augustus didn't care who this victor-to-be thought he was. There was going to be HELL to pay for what he did to Emblem and Grand.

It didn't even cross his mind that the other tributes had suffered nor that he'd taken part in torturing the boy from Eight just one year ago.

"Waste of a year this was. A fucking waste," Augustus popped open a bottle of booze, pouring out glasses for anybody around who wanted one. "This was meant to be my year! Fuck Lothar, fuck him to hell. He stole my victor from me!"

"Boy, I know you're upset and honestly I don't want him to win either," Honorius conceded, accepting a glass of wine. "But please… shut your mouth. Don't forget your pack tortured tributes. Your first kill was a twelve year old. Just think about that while you send your hatred at this boy, however justified it may be."

Augustus just scoffed, ignoring the elderly victor from Three and moving over to stand near Finnick. The handsome young man from Four gazed at the screen, his nails practically digging into the sides of his chair as he watched his tribute wander around through the dark forest.

"Think he has a chance?" Augustus asked, casual.

"I'd like to think so," Finnick replied.

"That doesn't sound like a yes," Augustus noted.

"Look, I know he has little chance but it's either he wins or Lothar sits with us next year," Finnick shuddered. "Plenty of us have lots of kills, but this… this is something else."

"I hope Ron wins too. Fucking Lothar…" Augustus snarled, red in the face. "Oh, here we go…"

Augustus watched as the final battle began. Ron barely avoided the same rope snares that had hindered and doomed many other tributes. From above Lothar used a crossbow to try and shoot him.

One well thrown knife from Ron got him onto the ground.

Augustus whistled, awed at the fight that began between Ron and Lothar. It was brutal, it was savage, blood was everywhere, Ron howled as five of his ribs were broken…

…Lothar howled a lot louder as his innards were torn out. Ron kept stabbing with his knife and broken bottle long after the cannon fired.

There was an gigantic applause for Finnick, both for mentoring a victor and for his tribute preventing the serial killer from winning. Augustus didn't join in, of course.

He was too disgusted and jealous to do anything but glare at Finnick. The applause and admiration was meant to be his! His!

He'd get them next year. The Sixty Ninth Games were going to be much different.

Augustus remained in a foul mood up to when he went back home and settled down to read comics with Peridot.

"You did your best," she told him, ever gentle.

It calmed Augustus a little… but only somewhat.

He felt terrible for Emblem. He was sorry that he had failed her when she needed him most. It was all the fault of those filthy outliers.

* * *

 **THE SIXTY NINTH HUNGER GAMES**

The year had not gotten off to a good start for Augustus. Not only had Ron's stop in One caused him no shortage of anger and fury – Ron had called him one of the worst victors for believing people should like him because he volunteered to kill children and won the Games. A fist fight had ensued. – but not long after life in One turned back to normal a district wide tragedy had occurred.

Peridot had passed away. She had lived a long life without tons of regrets, just a few really, and entrusted the future of the district to her fellow victors of One.

To Augustus.

He was not going to let his mentor down, no matter how much the thought of her death and how hard her funeral had been made his eyes well up with tears even now.

This year would be One's year, he'd make her proud. With a distinct lack of any serial killers in the arena how could it not be?

Bronze had been ready to mentor, he'd even been friendly with Augustus and claimed to see a little of himself within him. Of course, that had been before the female tribute turned out to be Platinum's daughter Spinel. From that point there was no other option than Platinum mentoring her daughter while Augustus would mentor the boy, Lord.

Augustus, of course, assumed that Spinel just wanted to share in her mother's glory. He was entirely ignorant to the reality that Snow had ordered his peacekeepers to give Platinum and Spinel an ultimatum – the girl volunteers or takes a bullet to her brain post-reaping.

Part of Augustus was annoyed that Platinum was surely going to perform better as a mentor because, like Gloss, she knew her tribute so well. He couldn't compete with that no matter what he did!

On the other hand Augustus wasn't too far gone in arrogance to feel ashamed for such thoughts swirling within his mind. He didn't want his fellow mentor to cry.

Luckily this year had been going amazingly so far. Augustus made sure to rub into the other districts that, even as deep in as the final eight, his district still had both of their tributes alive. Nobody else could claim the same.

It was especially impressive when one considered that the arena – a scorching desert – was filled to the brim with mutts. Then again, who better to deal with them than the pair from One?

Perhaps the boy from Ten. The oddball hermit was ignoring the other tributes entirely, as if they were not worth his time. He'd killed over a hundred mutts already and was tracking a particularly massive, horrific monster simply referred to as The Beast. It was labelled as unbeatable, but it seemed the boy either wanted to prove this wrong or was insane.

Probably insane.

Augustus took his gaze away from the screens for just a minute to look through the list of supplies he could buy with the considerable fortune of sponsor pledges he'd gotten. It's his first and only mistake of the year.

That was the moment when the gamemakers unleashed a group of sand sharks, a throwback to those seen in the Thirty Fifth Games. The careers were heavily armed with a variety of weapons, seemingly ready for anything.

The sand sharks were armed with maws full of sharp teeth and weren't just 'seemingly' ready for anything, they **were** ready for anything.

So much so that in under forty seconds District One had lost both of its tributes, the pair of them devoured painfully by the hungry shark mutts. Only the girl from Two managed to escape, fleeing for her life across the desert after taking Spinel off guard and shoving her to the sand sharks.

The mutts had oddly seemed to target Spinel the least, but in that moment it no longer mattered.

Platinum breaks down beside Augustus, screaming in despair and heartbreak. She howls for her daughter so loudly and for so long that a pair of peacekeepers are forced to sedate her so that the other mentors who still have a tribute can actually focus.

Augustus roared in fury, punching the table hard enough for it to crack. He calls out the whole thing as bullshit, complete and utter bullshit. His tributes had no chance at all!

"Tell that to my tribute. Yours grabbed her from the second the Games began," Paige muttered.

Augustus doesn't listen, not even when Paige signs something to Teff that has the deaf victor firmly nodding her agreement and folding her arms. He never did care for those two, often joined at the hip. They were beneath him.

He stormed out of the mentoring room before much else could be said. He didn't want to look at another second of the Games, not when they'd been ruined by such a convoluted mutt attack. The one thing to ruin his chances of having a victor and somehow it happened.

"I don't know what he's so pissed off about. He's been mentoring without success for two years," Haymitch said, opening another bottle. "I've done it for nearly twenty."

"Sore loser, that's what he is. He needs to learn to accept miserable defeat like I do," Wattzon muttered, gently holding Arendellian. Mutts always sent his surrogate sister into a bad state. Hugs helped.

"Maybe he's attached," Gwenith added, quietly. "It's always harder when people are attached to their tributes. I should know…"

"Perhaps. Point is, Augustus sucks," Haymitch said, knocking back his drink in one gulp.

Given the newest career victor's general attitude there were few that disagreed. Even elderly couple Baron and Runa, quietly sitting together at the back of the mentoring room to enjoy what was likely to be one of their last months together, couldn't exactly disagree.

* * *

 **THE SEVENTIETH HUNGER GAMES**

OK, so there had been a few false starts with mentoring so far. But there was nothing that Augustus could have done. He'd spent time studying the past two Games and carefully watched what had gone wrong. Third time's the charm and he was ready to finally do his old mentor Peridot proud. She's trusted him. He had a duty to repay that trust.

Seeing that there were no serial killers this year nor were there any ridiculously powerful mutts (not to mention all the mutt killing advice, stolen from Skinner, he'd given his own tribute) had Augustus feeling that this was sure to be his year. It would be a perfect way to end the seventh decade of the Hunger Games.

Just six were left and his tribute, a tall boy named Tigerstone, was still going strong. It was just him and his weaker ally from Two against four outliers. One from Three, one from Four, one from Six and one from Seven.

His current odds of winning were three to one.

It was perfect.

Even the other mentors seemed to know that a victory for District One was looking very likely. Olga, Honorius, Finnick, Chassis and Pliny just didn't want to admit it. That was fine by Augustus.

Soon enough they'd have no choice but to admit it, no matter how much they did not want to.

"Your girl isn't doing so hot right now Finnick," Augustus noted. He held back on the smugness, having recently started to get along well with the 'Flirt of Four'. Star should not harm star and all that. "How long has she been cowering in that cave now? Not starting anything, I've honestly forgot how long."

"Two days," Finnick replied. "She's not out of this yet. Annie's strong."

Augustus doubted this, but who was he to tell Finnick not to root for his tribute? They'd been close friends pre-Games, denial of the inevitable was obvious and practically his right at this point. Annie was huddled in a cave, rocking back and forth with wide, blank eyes. Every so often she'd softly scream or start laughing madly. The death of her district partner had messed her up big time.

A far cry from the cute, clumsy postal worker who boasted the powers of her 'Water Fu' back in training.

"Don't act like you have this won. My girl is a patriot, a winner, a predator. She's got this under control," Olga said. Even all these years after her own Games she was just as much a patriot as ever… even with her private moments of doubt. "Two's losing streak is about to over. I promise you that."

"Didn't realise you were the type to break promises Olga," Augustus remarked. "Fine, your girl is kinda strong, I guess? But look at her, she's broken one of her hands."

"She only needs one," Olga replied, cold as ice.

Augustus soon detached himself from talking to Finnick and Olga. They were too focused on their tributes to have much of anything to say. They still believed they had a chance to win.

Augustus doubted it, but they probably had more chance than the scattered outliers. The boy from Three was making bombs and strapping them onto himself, clearly having lost it. The boy from Six was half starved, ambling around like a zombie and softly moaning from his previously gained concussion. The girl from Seven, meanwhile, wandered through the wet marshlands armed with a broken spear held together by duct tape. She was soaked to the bone.

Nobody amongst the trio of Honorius, Chassis and Pliny looked hopeful. Honorius watched his boy with a sort of tragic resignation. Chassis tried to mutter encouragement to his boy, but it came out so half-hearted. As for Pliny, now aged eighty three, it was an ongoing effort to keep her eyes open. Her final sleep was coming, but she wanted more than anything to see one more child come home safe before then.

"You know, nobody would blame you if you guys just left early. No sponsors are coming for your tributes and nobody here would let it slip that you just cut your losses," Augustus said, pouring out a drink of ice cold water for himself.

"We'd know. We would know that when a child needed us the most we turned away because it was 'too hard'. No, I'd never do such a thing," Honorius said, frowning deeply.

"Yohan did," Augustus noted.

"I'm not Yohan," was all Honorius said in response.

Augustus shrugged, accepting this. He glanced at Pliny. "What's keeping you going sleepyhead?"

"I want to save one more. Just one more," Pliny whispered. She yawned. "I still remember a time before the Games. If Forest comes home I'll tell her all about it."

"I see. What about you Chassis? Hoping this one causes another disaster like all the other victors from your district, yourself included, managed to?" Augustus hoped very much that the answer was no.

"Got that right," Chassis said, smirking widely. "When Six wins, they win big."

"…Here's a thought, how are you still alive? Didn't you get cancer a few years ago?" Augustus asked, confused.

Chassis shrugged. "Yeah, but it comes and goes thanks to the medical supplies I've been buying. Having cancer doesn't mean I'm going to drop dead right away, we have better technology than the 'old world' before Panem. I reckon if I'm careful I have a few years left, and if not… well, I already know what to do."

Augustus didn't get to ask what this thing was. That was when Honorius tribute had finished rigging the bombs and made a mad dash for the large dam that had been holding back a near ocean of water towards the north of the arena.

"Fuck you Snow! Fuck all of you Capitol pigs!" the boy screeched as he jumped at the dam, clicking down the detonator.

The boy from Three died in a massive explosion, nothing remaining of him… nothing except the explosions causing a massive crack to begin forming in the dam.

The dam broke.

The water flooded the arena like a massive tidal wave. There was no escaping the water, not when all of the tributes had been in the low ground. Not even ten minutes later they were all struggling to keep above the water.

Augustus believed his tribute was a strong enough swimmer to stand a chance. He was right… up until Tigerstone was smashed into a large pile of debris and reduced to a splatter of gore.

Augustus screamed himself hoarse, furious over yet another failed year of mentoring. All because of that damn boy from Three and his ridiculous display. But no amount of swearing and screeching at Honorius would change a thing. His boy was dead and his district had lost once again.

In the end all Annie had to do was stay afloat, wait for the boy from Six to drown on his own time and then hold the girls from Two and Seven under the water when they, in a fit of desperation, tried to do the same to her first.

Finnick was rocketing out of the mentoring room from the moment the final cannon fired. He had a victor to meet… and more importantly, a dear friend who needed his support more than anything else.

Augustus was practically ill from the feelings of defeat. He could not understand how this kept happening to him and his well trained tributes. That was three times he had a chance to do Peridot proud and three times he failed.

When Dragon and Wattzon offered him the chance to join them at a local bar he didn't refuse the offer. He needed a drink to deal with his rage… and, not that he was ready to admit it, his guilt for failing again.

* * *

 **THE SEVENTY FIRST HUNGER GAMES**

Augustus was nothing if not a pro-active sort of mentor. From the instant he had been assigned his tribute (Emerald Fantazma, an expert with spears and the daughter of a close family friend) he made sure she knew what she was in for and what to watch out for; serial killers, dangerous mutts, the importance of killing the boy from Three right away and, most of all, how to swim.

Augustus gave her a swimming lesson in the train's indoor pool just to be on the safe side. She was almost as good as a tribute from Four would be.

Augustus felt his training tips had paid off immensely. 3-1 odds of winning and a spot in the top five had come by far too easily and none of the remaining tributes aside herself were what anybody could call tough.

She'd been smart enough to use a rock to bash in the heads of the Twos while they had been sleeping. The boy from One had died earlier from an ambush by the Fives, though Augustus partly blamed it on Dollar being a cuckoo sort of mentor.

"Zombies won't be in the arena ever again," he had told her, facepalming.

"That's what they said about sand sharks and we saw how that went," was her calm response.

They'd stopped talking after that.

But that was then and this was now. The Games had been interesting enough, but overall a very easy year for Emerald to participate in. The combination of weak outliers, her clever betrayal of the pack and how the arena – a large sort of savannah filled with scrubs, boulders and a mercilessly hot sun – had driven five tributes insane from terrible thirst had make it a walk in the park.

Augustus had winced a little when Emerald had torn out the intestines of the tiny girl from Nine, but aside that it was just a normal year. He told himself to get over it. Not his tribute, not his problem.

As it stood the only tributes left for Emerald to hunt down were the badly wounded boy from Five, the crybaby girl from Seven, the starving boy from Eight and the blind girl from Eleven – Augustus honestly had no idea how that girl had made it so far.

Good for her… not that he cared. He didn't.

"Oh, here we go," Augustus noted, sitting up straight as he watched Emerald approach the weeping girl from Seven sitting beside a dried up riverbed. "Better luck next year Jack."

"Bold of you to assume Johanna has no chance," Jack noted. He never did have much patience for Augustus' ego and arrogance.

"Not bold if it's common sense," Augustus replied, snooty. "She's done nothing but cry and whimper all Games."

"Yeah, she has," Jack agreed. "…All Games so far."

"Whatever, I don't have to listen to the guy who had to cheat to win the Games," Augustus said, turning away from Jack. "Honestly, that's worse than Spud being rigged into it."

"I can hear you…" Spud mumbled, watching his girl fumble around through some bushes.

"Yes, you can, and I don't care," Augustus said, picking up his glass of wine as Emerald reached the girl from Seven – Johanna, he reminded himself – and raised her spear.

Augustus began to choke on his wine, unable to stop himself gagging on the expensive drink. He couldn't believe what he was seeing. It was unreal! It was insane! By the time Gloss had helped him regain his breath he could only say one thing.

"What the fuck?!" Augustus screeched, horrified.

One moment Emerald had been ready to score another kill. The next moment she was on the ground, screaming from the horrific wound inflicted to her left hand. It hung loosely from the stump, cleaved badly by Johanna's hidden axe.

The axe came down again. The right hand was severed.

The axe came down again. The right foot was mangled.

The axe came down again. The left foot was slice in half.

Johanna looked down at the broken career girl. She practically drank in the sheer terror and pain of the former trained killer.

Augustus thought he was going to be sick. This couldn't be happening, this couldn't be happening! Not now, not again!

Not Emerald!

"How does it feel to have wasted your entire life training for a Games you were never going to win," Johanna sneered down at Emerald, idly tossing her axe between her hands. "You'll be forgotten, just like every other dead tribute."

Emerald was soon crying more than blood. Real tears exited her eyes, though not for long.

Johanna wasted little time bringing the axe down onto her neck.

Jack simply gave Augustus a wink, having known what Johanna's game was from the very start.

Augustus entered his yearly rage fit after losing a tribute, but this time it was different. This was somebody he had a personal bond with before the Games. Somebody he cared for and whom his family cared for.

He failed her.

Augustus began to wonder if this was exactly the sort of thing the other victors felt any time their tributes were the ones being killed. Was it possible? Was it probable? Platinum had reacted awfully to her daughter's death and she was hardly a career to begin with.

Augustus didn't think it over much. Wattzon and Dragon were already getting up and helping him out of the room, leading him off for a drink at the bar.

"Your tribute…" Augustus tried to say.

"Porter can cover for me," Wattzon stated. "…Honestly, I'll be real, I don't think Solar will last that long anyway."

Four failures in a row, four dead tributes whose death were to be blamed on him. Augustus was starting to lose confidence in himself, a phenomenon that had never struck him before.

* * *

 **THE SEVENTY SECOND HUNGER GAMES**

Ever since the death of Emerald Augustus had made a decision. Two in fact.

The first was to encourage his tributes to kill the boy from Three and girl from Seven first if at all possible. Never underestimate them or anybody else for that matter.

The second was that, for every tribute he failed to save, he would get a tattoo of their name on his chest. A way to ensure they were remembered forever and as a firm reminder that he had to become a better mentor.

The Capitol citizens who paid for his company often didn't have any idea who the tributes were. Initially Augustus had not minded the appointments – Capitol women were hot in his not so humble opinion – but genuinely forgetting Emerald existed? That was too far.

Not that he could act on that anger. That much had been made clear.

This year had been a tough one on his nerves. It was getting increasingly hard to watch when, say, a massive tribute from Two would destroy the face of a screaming twelve year old with only their fist. It felt almost wrong, given how unfair of a match-up it was.

Maybe the lack of having a victor yet was just getting to him again. But if he had his way then that was going to be changing very, very soon. His boy had just dispatched the girl from Three and was hunting down the last tribute standing.

Sigh… it just had to be her didn't it?

Numi Marrolto, self-appointed 'ultimate fangirl' of her mentor Bentley. Both were rappers and while Augustus would admit that Bentley was talented… Numi really wasn't. At all.

The meathead had been singing awful rap after awful rap throughout the Games, oblivious to how much of a doofus she was coming off as.

At least his tribute, a formidable and dashing boy named Komodo, had an easy final battle.

"Sorry in advance Bentley. I know you guys are still dealing with losing Chassis, but you'll have to make do without your fangirl as well," Augustus began to pour out a drink for them both. "Only one gets home."

"It's all good," Bentley replied, accepting the drink. He was, for once, free of drugs. He'd really cleaned himself up for Games season, that was for sure. "Besides, Numi's coming home. She's a lot stronger than anybody knows."

"Oh really? How?" Augustus briefly glanced over to where Johanna sat, dozing in her seat beside Fir. "She's no Johanna."

"True," Bentley concede. "But she doesn't need to be. She only needs to be herself."

Bentley hit a button and sent in his final sponsor gift to his tribute.

"…A car tyre?" Augustus struggling to think of anything to say. "You sure you're not on drugs?"

"Just watch," Bentley said. He winced for a moment. "Sorry in advance."

Augustus watched. He watched with a familiar sort of growing horror at what was beginning to unfold. Numi leapt atop the tyre moments before Komodo spotted her. He charged at her, plenty of swords ready to be slashed and thrown into her smaller body. She charged as well… from there it was clear what her advantage was.

When atop the tire she was too damn fast for Komodo to have any hope of catching or throwing a sword into. Her balance was perfect and her speed at least triple that of a strong tribute's typical running speed!

All the while the girl kept on singing a rap song. It had Augustus close to tearing his immaculate hair right out.

He only wished Komodo could hear his pleading for him to run away and find better terrain to fight in. Alas, he was many miles away and even if he was nearby Numi's rapping would be one hell of a challenge to speak over.

" _Hopped on the tyre and was ready to go-go_

 _Wind in my hair, loving it fo' sho'_

 _Met a career, 'twas loco Komodo_

 _He liked throwing swords so I told him no-no_

 _You better move quick cuz' you're in my dojo_

 _You look a bit thirsty, want some hot cocoa_?"

Not even five minutes later Augustus no longer had a tribute. He had, however, booked another tattoo appointment to have Komodo's name forever marked onto his body – the body of a terrible mentor – and was leading Wattzon and Dragon off for another night of heavy drinking.

Something had to be wrong with his brain for the treasonous thoughts to be stuck in his head, but the Hunger Games were starting to look… wrong.

Awful, even.

* * *

 **THE SEVENTY THIRD HUNGER GAMES**

Augustus was starting to get very tired of the constant defeats that he had been going through for the past couple of years. Five tributes all dead because of him. Five times his promise to Peridot that he would be a great mentor had been broken.

It was getting harder every single year.

All the same, he was a proud citizen of District One. The first district. The _best_ district. He couldn't accept defeat because where would that leave his tributes? He'd suck it up as best as he could each year and do what he could for his tributes.

This year he was watching over a girl, Lustella, and hoped beyond hope that her sword skills would be enough for her to stay alive.

He could only sigh in resignation when this failed to be enough.

It was just never enough.

This year his tribute didn't even get to last a few days before their horrible death. It was within the bloodbath that Lustella ended up losing her life. One moment she'd bent over to grab up a short sword, the next moment the opportunistic boy from Ten smashed a piece of rubble from the abandoned city over her head and left her for dead.

"That's it, peel her onions and make her cry he-who-sneaks Rind boy!" Pasture exclaimed, jumping up and down as she watched Rind gather supplies and escape.

Augustus could only punch his desk and let out a weary sigh. What was he doing wrong here? What mistake had he made this time?

Bronze, seated beside Augustus, didn't even react as Lustella died nor when the boy from Two turned around, having heard footsteps, and smashed a twelve year old in the face with a sledgehammer.

"Don't feel too bad, she was always going to die no matter what you did. Just do what I do and enjoy the luxury," as if to demonstrate his point Bronze sipped from a glass of champagne. "I always did see a bit of myself in you. Relax and embrace it."

Only a few years ago Augustus would have beamed in pride to hear such a thing from Bronze. But not anymore.

Suddenly the idea of being like Bronze was legitimately terrifying.

A night of drinking would hopefully make everything better. It had worked for the past few years. Why would it stop now?

* * *

 **THE SEVENTY FOURTH HUNGER GAMES**

Augustus wished he had never volunteered for the Games. He'd been happier when he was just another fanboy wanting his own shot at glory and cheering on all the tributes from his district, whether they won or lost.

But, such ignorance was part of the problem. A problem that he now saw was all too real and he'd been too stupid and naïve to see it coming. Was that what Peridot meant when she warned him about being a mentor? That each year he'd only feel worse about himself? Was he going to keep on feeling worse or did there come a point where he'd just be numb to it?

Surely it couldn't get any worse than watching his own niece being horribly stung to death by tracker jackers. Glimmer hadn't stood a chance and, just like every other tribute he'd mentored, died in great pain and all alone.

To add insult to injury the 'Girl on Fire' had stolen her bow and arrows.

Augustus eventually stopped his weeping, maybe after two or three hours. That was surely nothing to how her immediate family were feeling. He knew she needed one more year of training, but the order from Snow was not that could possibly be ignored.

He gazed around the mentoring room, taking it all of the reactions of other victors. Almost all of them were negative. Indeed, aside from Bronze and Enobaria, nobody present in the room was particularly pleased.

Wiress was sad for the homeless and clever little girl she'd been trying to mentor.

Finnick let a few tears flow down his cheeks, his nephew's death still fresh in his mind.

Annie cried over the fisher girl she'd tried to do her best for.

Arendellian kept asking where her boy had gone, her unstable mind not able to comprehend that he'd been killed unjustly. Wattzon did his best to support her, unable to bring himself to tell the truth.

Bentley had given into the urge to take morphling once again, guilty for failing his boy.

Numi sobbed, her best friend having been in her care and killed unceremoniously at the start of the Games.

Blight occasionally smacked his fake hand onto his desk, furious over the death of yet another boy from Seven.

Johanna didn't appear to be in a good mood, but then again it was rare that she was.

Spool muttered to himself, furious for not thinking of a plan to help his boy after he suffered a leg injury during training.

Cecelia cried openly, still hurting from the terrible death of her girl. Yet another tribute too young to stand a chance.

Tabbock felt pissed off that his tribute was dead. Mainly as it meant he'd be unlikely to get more screen time as a mentor that year.

Laurel hadn't said a word since her tribute died. As usual she'd failed to be of any help to whoever was thrust into her care.

Pasture felt bad for her pacifist tribute, wishing she'd had more time to press upon her the importance of using shoes in combat.

Even those who still had a tribute did not feel particularly happy. Enobaria and Bronze were just exceptions to the rule, both happy to cheer on Clove and Marvel until the very end, poisoning them through encouragement of their worst traits, traits that in another world they might have even been able to overcome.

Magnus seemed to outright fear his own tribute, one truly monstrous boy. A young man with so many personal issues and exactly zero outlets aside one encouraging murder and pain.

Beetee was full of pure nervousness over his rather sadistic boy's plan with the landmines.

Porter hoped for the safety of her incredibly cunning girl.

Stallion dared to think his tough boy had a chance, but with his district partner having been his true love it was clear the old 'stampeder' was worried his tribute may become erratic and reckless.

Chaff was growing worried that his tribute's refusal to leave a large field of wheat would trigger gamemaker wrath.

Seeder knew the little girl she was mentoring was sure to die and was spending her time bracing for the inevitable.

Haymitch thought it was too good to be true that he had two serious contenders. With the girl unconscious and the boy slowly dying by the side of a river it very well may have been.

The common factor was how none of them were having fun. There was no spirit of competition. It was just a matter of which mentor broke last. Which among them wouldn't feel the crushing guilt of failing yet another year.

Marvel had very good odds of winning, but did it matter anymore? At least for this year it certainly didn't matter to Augustus. His niece was dead and she was never coming back! In the time she needed him there more than anything he'd been worthless. Worse than worthless!

That was when it all clicked into place. It was how Platinum felt, how Laurel and Pasture had felt, how the families of the dead tributes felt… it was like a strike of lighting, years' worth of tributes, deaths and tragedy hitting him in one agonizing bitch slap.

He'd contributed to the system and kept this going on with a smile on his face.

Had Peridot done the same? Did she love the Games? …Did she see it as the best they would ever get, to have careers and sacrifice their reputation to Panem in exchange for safety?

Augustus said little else, too lost in maddening thought to react to any words sent his way. Even Marvel's death several days later failed to get a response out of him.

"Yep, he's broken alright. Lights are on but nobody is home," Stallion noted.

"That's what I call magic!" Tabbock added, laughing.

* * *

 **THE SEVENTY FIFTH HUNGER GAMES: THE THIRD QUARTER QUELL**

Augustus wondered what his arrogant, idiotic eighteen year old self would have thought of this quell. He knew all too well that dumb kid would have been ecstatic. An all victor Hunger Games? Amazing!

He knew better now. He knew this particular Games was nothing short of a complete farce. People he'd known for years were either dead or surely close to being so. Cashmere and Gloss, a pair Augustus would have proudly declared to anybody were some of the best friends a man could ask for, had already been killed one after the other.

So many victors were dead. Whether it was friends (and former enemies) of his like Cecelia, Bentley and Brutus or people he couldn't stand like Brutus and Porsche, it was the same in the end.

Dead, their freedom taken away by a ridiculous quell. Augustus even slightly suspected it was at least possible that it had been rigged.

The Girl on Fire had, after all, started a fire of sorts across the nation.

Only six were left alive and Augustus felt his heart sinking when he realised who was likely to be next. Katniss had her bow held firm, the arrow notched and Finnick in her sights.

He knew he would be a coward if he looked away or left the room.

Of course, he couldn't blame those who had chosen to leave. Of the thirty five living victors who weren't picked for the quell, only a few were still hanging around to watch the Games, mostly of loyalty to the tributes or each other (or to make bets in Tide's case). Aside himself it was just Rhyder, Honorius, Ron, Tide, Anchor, Jack, Paige, Teff, Gwenith, Bear and Haymitch. Looking around the normally packed mentoring room made it seem much smaller than it often was.

The others were either out around the Capitol or, in Lyme and Lammy's case, had come down with some sort of illness and remained back in the districts. Augustus envied the trapper girl very much.

"Who do you guys think is going to win?" Augustus asked, mainly just to make conversation.

"Finnick," Anchor replied confidently.

"Him or Katniss," Jack added. "Hmm… maybe Johanna? I'm probably biased, but there you go. Never said I was perfect."

The victors continued to watch as the Games began to reach their conclusion.

It was a mere fifteen minutes before the lightning tree would activate again when Stallion burst into the room, moving with the speed he had shown throughout his own Games back in his young decades ago.

"They know! We've gotta move, now!" he spoke rapidly, his eyes wide.

He'd not looked more alive in years.

His words had Haymitch and Gwenith leaping up, most of the other victors quick to follow their lead. Anchor, Tide and Augustus remained seated, unsure what was going on. Augustus glanced at the screen, noting that Katniss was making her way towards the lightning tree.

"What are you guys talking about?" Anchor asked, frowning.

"How? How do they know? Everything was airtight," Haymitch insisted, clutching his bottle in his hand.

"Somebody must have let it slip," Gwenith muttered, starting to pace back and forth. "What do we do? Where are they?"

"Not far back. Peacekeepers, lots of them. They're on their way right now," Stallion tried to catch his breath. "Only my 'stampeding' kept me ahead of them. Look, we need to move now! Logger squealed and-."

"That bastard!" Ron roared, clenching his fists. "I knew we couldn't trust him, I knew it!"

"We told him nothing. He must have overheard something," Haymitch said, his words spilling out fast and frantic.

"No, seriously, what are you guys talking about?" Anchor asked, stumped.

Distant footsteps of Peacekeepers began to enter the ears of the victors. Very faint for now, but certainly not for long.

"Where's the pick up point?" Haymitch asked, desperate.

"The park. They won't wait for us for long," Stallion continued. He took a deep breath. "If we want to win this war… some of us will need to hold them off."

There was a brief silence. Nobody dared say a word and the only movement came from Paige providing a rapid sign language translation for Teff. The deaf victor bravery rose to her feet and stood beside the door, signing one last response to Paige.

- _My uncle was willing to give his life at any time to take them down and free Panem. The same holds true for me_.-

Jack strode over to a panel on the floor. Augustus joined the others in staring when the master thief yanked a panel off of the floor and took out a duffel back filled with guns and even a deadly looking grenade.

"…What the fuck?" Anchor asked, stunned.

"How the hell did you…" Rhyder trailed off, thinking better of trying to get an actual answer.

"Master thief mate," Jack replied, quickly passing out the weapons to everybody aside Anchor and Augustus. He stood by the door, a machine gun in hand. "Let's do this. For Fir!"

"We're dead no matter what we do. Ah, what the hell, I bet I can take out five before they get me," Tide remarked, ducking down behind a desk for cover.

The footsteps were getting closer.

"We need to move. If anybody else is willing to stay behind… decide quickly and… bless your souls," Gwenith whispered, shaking. "Bear, you're coming right?"

Gwenith softly gasped when Bear shook his head, pumping his shotgun.

"But… Bear, no…" Gwenith couldn't hold back her tears.

"The rebellion needs you. Me? I've always been a fighter. When I was a boy I thought for power and food. When I was a tribute I fought for life. When I grew up I fought for tributes… and now, at the end, I'm fighting to keep you safe," Bear gave Gwenith a tender, gentle smile. "Go. They need you."

"…Bear…" Gwenith tried not to cry. She failed. "All those years, all the decades… I never…"

Bear gave Gwenith a hug fitting his namesake. "Me too. Ever since the Twentieth Games."

He kissed her.

The footsteps weren't far away.

"What the hell are you all doing?!" Anchor screamed. "Betraying the Capitol? You pigs, you low down worthless-GET OFF!"

Ron held Anchor in an iron fight grip, his body building talent having granted him strength superior to even the Shark of the Fifty Second.

"Shut up," Ron hissed.

"Quite right," Honorius agreed, readying his pistol. "The grown-ups are talking. Back in my day kids knew a thing called respect."

Honorius laughed, amused by the proceedings more than anything else.

Augustus was just plain puzzled.

"Are you guys rebels?" he asked, finally able to speak beyond his confusion.

"Give the boy a prize," Haymitch drawled, backing away towards the window. "We're gonna have to climb down a storey, people."

"Wait, can I come too?" Augustus asked. "Please?"

"…Why would you even want to?" Haymitch asked, carefully.

"Peridot told me to look after District One and it's people. To be the best mentor I could possibly be," Augustus narrowed his eyes, determination shining within them. "But it seems like the only way I can ensure a wonderful future for One is to at least try and help you rebels. It just feels like the right thing to do."

It was decided that Honorius, Tide, Ron (with Anchor as his unwilling shield), Jack, Teff, Stallion and Bear would remain behind to buy the others some time. They were more than willing to face death or imprisonment if it meant giving the second rebellion a chance to succeed.

It was with heavy hearts that Haymitch, Gwenith, Paige, Rhyder and Augustus made their quick escape outside of the window in that order. Augustus made his way out into the cold air of the night right as the Peacekeepers entered the mentoring room.

He glanced back for all of a second, watching the gunfire and several of the Peacekeepers falling over dead.

Augustus knew he'd never forget the sight of Teff falling to the ground covered in bullet holes nor of Anchor taking dozens of bullets that had been meant for Ron, screaming and pleading his loyalty to the Capitol all the while.

Augustus was down and running after the others through a hallway on the lower floor before he could see anymore deaths or signs of arrests. He could only hope those still alive would be alright.

Hope had never done him much good, but there was a first time for everything.

They managed to reach the exit of the massive building barely two minutes later, but a peacekeeper blockage had formed. They were trapped.

"Let's do this," Rhyder muttered, readying his assault rifle.

Paige put a hand on Rhyder's shoulder.

"I've got this. The rebellion needs you so badly," Paige said, taking a deep breath. "Get ready to run."

"Paige, what are you doing? Paige… Paige, no!" Rhyder yelled.

Augustus watched from his spot crouched beside Haymitch as Paige took the pin out of one of the deadly explosives Jack had passed around and charged at the bewildered Peacekeepers. He braced himself for what he knew was coming.

She looked perfectly at peace, a far cry from how riddled with anxiety she'd been in her youth once upon a time.

"I am what I am and what I am is beautiful!"

The explosion sent plenty of the sidewalk flying and enveloped the area in a dust shower. When everything was clear the peacekeepers were all dead and there was little left of Paige.

All that remained was an old photograph of herself and Stringer, taken before her Games. Augustus briefly watched Rhyder snatch it up as they made their way out into the night.

"Go on ahead!" Rhyder called to Haymitch and Gwenith. "I'll catch up, I still need to find a few of the others!"

"Understood!" Haymitch called back as he ran off to the park.

"Be safe! Good luck!" Gwenith added.

Augustus watched Haymitch and Gwenith wearily run one way, both still reeling from the deaths of their friends. Tears would surely be falling before long.

He then looked to where Rhyder was running off into the night, deeper into the Capitol. He began to run after Rhyder.

"Wait up!" Augustus called. "I'll help you!"

It had taken years. Years longer than it should have in his personal opinion, but Augustus was ready to the right thing and serve more than his own ego. He's serve the rebels as best as he could. For One, for the children and for Peridot.

Hunger Games for **_never_**.

* * *

Katniss and Peeta concluded their silence for Augustus and, after one last look at his imprinted face, resumed their walk down the long street.

It was just ten paces before they came to the sixty eighth face on the Walk of Victors. The firm face of a boy stared firmly back at them, several scars across his face and a mop of incredibly messy hair poking out from under a sailor hat. He was of a moody disposition, no doubt about it.

"Ron Stafford," Katniss said, recognition instantly flaring up in her eyes. "I remember these Games. I remember what a survivalist this boy was… he overcame so much."

"I remember that too," Peeta agreed. He paused, a nasty shudder passing throughout his body. "But you know what I remember even more? The boy from Three – Lothar Paral."

Katniss joined Peeta in shuddering. It was common opinion that Lothar was, bar none, the hands down most evil tribute who had ever joined the Games…

* * *

So, how was that? Careers learning that the Games are sick and wrong isn't a new concept at all – I've done it myself, of course – but the idea of Augustus gradually seeing the Games for what they are, sick and wrong, overall several years as a mentor just seemed like too good a concept to let go. Especially as it let us catch up on some of the other victors and learn a few more fates in the process. Far better, I think, than the original idea… Augustus being high on heroin for the Games and, in his drug induced madness, accidently becoming a hero. Suffice to say, I feel like I made the right choice in what to actually do here, haha. Anyway, stay tuned for more sooner than later… and as stated, one hell of an evil tribute is soon to show up. Whatever will the next victor do…?

* * *

 **Stats**

 **District 1:** Peridot Gaudy (8th Games), Crystal McCree (14th Games), Bronze Marley (19th Games), Crown Martins (24th Games), Dollar Dettwieller (32nd Games), Mascara Court (41st Games), Platinum Twist (44th Games), Gloss Lord (63rd Games), Cashmere Lord (64th Games), Augustus Braun (67th Games)

 **District 2:** Baron Overwhill (4th Games), Runa Peace (7th Games), Olga Machete (10th Games), Rook Valiant (17th Games), Boulder Atherston (20th Games), Vercingetorix Carnby (25th Games), Dragon Batofel (27th Games), Rhyder Overwhill (39th Games), Mercy Gregor (46th Games), Brutus Gunn (49th Games), Lyme Rabe (51st Games), Enobaria Golding (62nd Games)

 **District 3:** Honorius Perthshire (5th Games), Pi Orbit (22nd Games), Beetee Latier (37th Games), Wiress Plummer (47th Games), Yohan Fairbane (58th Games)

 **District 4:** Museida Selkirk (3rd Games), Mags Flanagan (11th Games), Tide Luther (23rd Games), Librae Ogilvy (35th Games), Anchor Paddock (52nd Games), Finnick Odair (65th Games)

 **District 5:** Shunt Gaspar (12th Games), Isobel Sparks (18th Games), Crimson Flanders (29th Games), Porter Tripp (38th Games), Neon Erg (48th Games), Wattzon Holmes (55th Games), Arendellian Spinner III (57th Games)

 **District 6:** Chassis Macalister (31st Games), Bentley Corduroy (54th Games), Porsche London (56th Games)

 **District 7:** Pliny Aransio (2nd Games), Fir Buzz (9th Games), Jack Tylos (21st Games), Snag Nakamura (34th Games), Blight Jordan (53rd Games), Logger Barlow (61st Games)

 **District 8:** Woof Casino (16th Games), Paige Murphy (30th Games), Spool Nylon (42nd Games), Cecelia Mog (60th Games)

 **District 9:** Mizar Aldjoy (1st Games), Gwenith Rosebud (13th Games), Teff Withers (28th Games), Laurel Flamsteel (36th Games), Tabbock Summers (43rd Games), Trevy Vex (Escaped 55th Games)

 **District 10:** Stallion March (26th Games), Lammy Phyronix (40th Games), Pasture Gallows (59th Games)

 **District 11:** Bear Redfoot (15th Games), Seeder Howell (33rd Games), Chaff Mitchell (45th Games), Spud Munroe (66th Games)

 **District 12:** Duke Saint-Rose (6th Games), Haymitch Abernathy (50th Games)


	69. Ron Stafford

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Hunger Games. They belong to Suzanne Collins.

 **Note:** Ah, Ron. When I first came up with him he was kinda just 'another D4 victor, except kinda moody'. Yet another name taken from that old victor list of very ambiguous actual canon value lmao. But here, I feel like I've managed to give him one hell of an 'origin story' of sorts. These Games have been hyped up as particularly grimdark and brutal, even by the standards of the already cruel Hunger Games, so… let the bloodshed begin!

Oh, but before we begin… naturally, I wrote other HG stories before this one. As in, before I ever had a full list of victors really worked out. Hence, it can be hard to keep checking that everything is lining up properly. As reviewer Red Thorn helpfully pointed out, in Burning Snow it is detailed that Museida should be dead by now. This isn't quite the case anymore, he's still alive for now, so that part has been given a bit of a hasty edit haha. Feel free to point out any inconsistencies ya'll find and I'll fix them up to ensure the canon works properly.

Lastly, to answer the questions of N.C.s 1 Fan, Glimmer being Augustus' niece was mainly whim based. Just sorta clicked in the moment as 'hey, that'd be a neat detail' y'know? As for who the young romantic at the end of Finnick's chapter was… stay tuned. After all, as it said, that was another story. ;)

* * *

"You ever wonder why his reaping transmission got cut off so suddenly?" Peeta asked. "Probably means something bad happened they wanted nobody knowing about, right?"

"It would make sense," Katniss agreed. "No idea what it could be. I think the bigger point here… it's amazing Ron even managed to avoid Lothar for so long."

"I guess, since Ron openly said he wanted to die, it made some twisted sense for the serial killer to leave him for last?" Peeta paused, wincing. "Remember their final battle? Lothar didn't even look like anything resembling a human by the time Ron was done with him."

Katniss could only put on a cold look. "No less than what Lothar deserves. We're just lucky Ron was strong enough to take him down and prevent him becoming a victor."

"Got that right," Peeta agreed. "Imagine, that monster being pardoned of everything and being free to wreak havoc with victor status. I'm not saying I approve of murder, but what Ron did to him… it felt like a cruel yet understandable form of justice…"

The pair cast away all thoughts of the monster from Three in favour of holding a respectful silence for the boy who managed to defeat him.

* * *

 **68** **th** **Annual Hunger Games**

 **Name:** Ron Stafford

 **Gender:** Male

 **District:** 4

 **Age:** 15

 **Kills:** 2

* * *

 **RON**

I wish I was dead. After volunteering it seems like I might just get my wish after all. There's nobody left for me to come home to nor live on to support.

My big brother Fenner had his name pulled, but it was me that took the chance to volunteer. How could I not? He's always been what some might call simple. He doesn't understand much nor just how much danger he was in. He's always smiling and waving to everybody.

He was, at least. He tried to follow me into the judgement building when I mounted the stage to take his place… some peacekeeper thought he was trying to break and enter or some shit. They shot him through the pack of his head like an animal.

The tears fall thick and fast. They burn my eyes as they trickle down my face. I wonder how long I've been sitting here crying.

I wonder how long I'll have to sit here all alone. I already know that nobody is coming for me. How can they? Mom and dad died in a fishing accident, my sister Coralee was killed by muggers and I don't want to think about what happened to uncle Finbarr.

I hope they're proud that I held on this long without killing myself. But now poor Fenner is dead and I've got nothing to lose. No hopes, no dreams, no anything.

I might as well just jump to the landmines. I honestly do not care anymore.

Best I can do is buddy up with another tribute and help them win, offing myself at the end so they don't have to. But I doubt such a thing will come to pass. Panem isn't fair and neither is life.

The clock tells me I still have ten minutes until it's time to get on the train. I wonder how many tears will fall in that time.

I wonder if they'll even give Fenner a funeral.

* * *

 **LOTHAR**

Nobody has come to visit me. That's fine with me, it's not as if I had any friends or family anyway. Any of them that I could claim to have once had are already dead in the dirt. They didn't hold out against the razor for as long as I imagined they would.

Just one more year and I'd have been out of the reaping bowl. Free to continue having fun with the citizens and the razors for years. It was always my goal to reach my hundredth kill by the time I turned eighteen. Alas, I'm twelve off.

I pace around, so excited that I just can't sit still. Most would be crying, screaming and pleading for mercy. Cowards. Fools. This is such an opportunity! The chance to spill blood and hear screams without any need for subtlety nor any legal hassle.

What the Capitol wants is death, blood and pain. It just so happens that exactly the same thing that I want as well. Who would I be to say no to playing along with their generous offer? Once I win the Games this boring district might finally start to get interesting.

Nobody has any idea what they have unleashed, and I'll be sure it stays that way… at least, until I get into the arena and see what sort of terrain I have to work with. So long as I have a razor blade, some rope and a gag, though, I don't see it making a huge difference.

This is gonna be fun.

* * *

 **RON**

I keep my distance from everybody else on the train, even when they force me to watch the reaping recaps. Between my district partner Algae being another one of those disgusting careers and the escort chattering on about Fenner being a savage for trying to break not the building – I almost kill her where she stands for that one until Anchor restrains me – it's shaping up to be just another step in this marathon nightmare.

I sit, fuming, tied up by Anchor's rope as the reaping recap plays. Too bad for Anchor that I've been getting myself out of rope like this for years. The other dock hands have a stupid sense of humour and I'm all too familiar with it.

I'm loosen the ropes in under ten seconds. I remain silent, waiting for the right moment to get up and bolt from the carriage. If I move too early they'll just tie me up, or maybe cuff me for good measure.

The reaping is mostly the same stuff as always. Four brutes from One and Two. Some lanky boy from Three who seems just about ready to laugh when his name is pulled. Algae proudly volunteering and then myself doing the same, far more desperately.

They cut out Fenner's death entirely and the sudden cease of the footage make sit obvious it was a quick, shoddy editing job.

From there it's mostly just half starved children, most anywhere from fourteen to sixteen. The thing that catches my eye is how the boys from Seven and Eight volunteer for their younger brothers just like I did. I wonder if their brothers were killed as well.

I get up and bolt when the escort begins to chatter about how 'broken' the tributes from Twelve look. I don't want to hear anymore of her voice.

I spend most of my time on the train locked into my room. I don't leave for dinner nor anything else. What's the point? My entire plan here is to kill myself quickly.

I only leave when my hunger compels me to raid the kitchen for something filling. To my surprise I'm not alone when I get there.

Museida sits with a bottle of beer. Finnick sits beside him, engrossed in some book. They greet me with a wave and an offer of steak. Their friendliness morphs into shock when, after they ask for my plan for the Games, I flat out say I'm killing myself.

"Don't look so shocked," I say between mouthfuls. "They took away everybody I ever loved. I don't care about living anymore."

"You're angry," Museida says, slowly. Even when elderly and blind he still has a sort of spark left within him. "Use that anger in the arena. You could even use it to take some revenge."

"I'll pass," I say, putting my plate in the sink.

"Don't you want to win?" Finnick looks genuinely uneasy. "I know things look rough, trust me I know. But things can change and-."

"Forget it. Just focus on Algae. She's a piece of shit to volunteer for glory, but she's still from Four," I turn, not lingering to hear anything else.

The last thing I hear as I leave the kitchen is Museida agreeing with my read on Algae. He always did hate everybody who volunteers for anything besides saving somebody they love. For that reason he's always made his contempt for Tide and Anchor very clear.

* * *

 **LOTHAR**

I stayed up late making notes on the reaping recap. Who is strongest? Who is weakest? Who is likely to die quickly to the razor and who may put up a fight before they begin to give into the agony? I feel like it all comes back to the same thing – I can win this and these blood sacks are going to give me quite the fun summer vacation away from Three.

The Capitol looks nice and is filled with crowd upon crowd of odd looking people – more and more targets if you ask me – but I don't think it could possibly compare to whatever the arena is going to me. The thought of all the mayhem has me, yet again, unable to keep myself sitting still, even as the prep team works me over in the remake centre.

They're annoyed at first by my movements, but when I tell them I'm just so excited for what lays ahead and that I'm too happy to stay still like a statue they're quick to let it go. If anything they become more than happy to chatter with me about the Games and their favourite kills. It's apparently rare for them to get a tribute who 'sees the Games as the honour they are'.

I don't give a shit about honour, just having fun killing. But I play along with their chattering. After all, when it comes to naming the best kills I have plenty to add to the topic.

"Finnick's final kill to the boy from Five was iconic," one of the men gushes.

"True, but Enobaria ripping the throat out of that boy – can't remember his district – was amazing," the other man adds.

"You're both right, but the best kill was when Augustus cut off the boy from Eight's fingers and then stabbed his neck," the women says, giggling as she brushes my hair. "What about you Lothar?"

"Anything Titus did," I say, a satisfied smirk crossing my face.

They seem disturbed by this, as if I'd somehow gone too far after their own casual applauding of murder. Luckily it's not hard to get these three on my side. Just a few words praising the way Spud's district partner blew herself up has them giggling and chattering all over again.

I can't help but smile at the thought of what they'll think of my own kills. I think I can do better than all the ones they mentioned. Challenge accepted.

* * *

 **RON**

I hadn't even planned to attend training, but apparently it's in the rules that I have to. They can't take it out on anybody I love, but they claim to have a bone saw reserved for such occasions.

I end up content to just make a half assed effort at the knife fighting training station. Nobody else is around for now. It's just me and a trainer who has the good sense to stay the hell away from me. Even he seems to know I don't care if I win or die.

It's half an hour from lunchtime when the boys from Seven and Eight make their way over to me. I act like they're not there at all until they start speaking to me.

"So, you volunteered too," the boy from Seven notes.

"Whoa, so you watched the reaping recaps? What a revolutionary concept," I roll my eyes. "Get lost."

They exchange an uncertain glance, as if they expected something else from me.

"We're the same as you Ron. I'm Rottway and this is Strap," the boy from Seven gestures to himself and his ally in turn. "We volunteered for our brothers as well, you know? What you did was really brave."

I turn to face them. I don't hold back the fire in my eyes.

"It was pointless. They shot him not even a minute later. He was just following me into the justice building, so they shot him for 'trying to break in'. He's fucking dead!" I feel my voice cracking. "He was dead either way, but I shortened his life by a week. I'm jumping to the fucking mines. Just leave me alone."

They don't move for a short while, standing ridged with horror and shock. Eventually they get the sense they're not wanted and make their way over to the sword training station.

It doesn't last. They sit down with me at lunch, clearly too thick headed to take a hint.

"What?" I ask, dull.

"We want to help you," Rottway says. "I know, I know, only one of us is getting out of this thing… no reason we cannot be there for each other for now. Not like all three of us are making the top three if we're being realistic."

"Exactly. You at least tried to spare your brother. You took his place out of love, just as we did for our little bros," Strap adds, nodding. "That means a ton to people like us. We want you in our alliance, please."

"Why? What possible reason is there?" I roll my eyes. "All I can do is throw a punch and cuss people out. I'm not a good ally."

"We're not playing for allies. Sure, it's an alliance… but in that alliance are a group of friends," Rottway looks me in the eye. "Give us a chance to be your friends. You're alone, but you don't have to be."

I get the feeling that, no matter what I do, these two aren't going to leave me alone. Fine then. Perhaps if I play along and refuse them again come the end of the day they'll take the hint and bugger off.

It's with great surprise that I end up joining them for training after lunch. Maces, wrestling, running, edible plants, we do everything together up to when we're dismissed for the night. I'm stumped that so much time went by… and especially stumped because I was enjoying it.

"Same time tomorrow?" Rottway asks me.

"I'll be there," I say, before I even realise what I'm saying.

My change in attitude, even if I still don't care what becomes of me, must be obvious. Finnick asks me about it when I enter the fourth floor in much higher spirits than before.

"You seem different. What's caused the change?" Finnick inquired, a smile on his face. "It's a welcome change."

"I got the push I needed," I reply, moving past him towards my bedroom.

It's true. After all, I now have something to live for, even if it's unlikely to come to pass. If I can save one of Rottway or Strap then some little boy in either Seven or Eight won't have to see their big brother die.

* * *

 **LOTHAR**

Training was honestly a let-down. So many blades and no chance to actually use them on anybody. Keeping myself under control around all these targets is tough work. On the other hand, nobody seemed inclined to hide anything from me when I'm acting like just another random tribute.

OK, maybe it was odd to try and talk to the girl from Eleven about blood and, perhaps, it wasn't great for my cover that she told a few of the others I'm nuts. But really, so long as nobody fully believes her I should be good.

The only problem is that I like to make my kills one on one. It's more personal that way, you really get to connect with the victim. But the alliances that have formed might cause an issue. Five careers, all joined together at the hip, and those three big brothers from four, seven and eight. I'll have to separate them somehow.

I'm sure I'll think of something. I always have been inventive. It's how I keep the money coming in during the off-season from killing, after all.

It's so close. The arena. I can always hear the screams, taste the blood, feel the horror… oh yesssss…

But the interview remains to be done. Having purposely scored a three – a three for a three, it seemed like a fun idea – nobody is really paying me much attention. Only a scant few think I could be the next Spud, not that I'd lower myself that low for bloodshed.

OK, fine, I would.

I just keep it simple, to the point and a little quirky with Caesar. He's the last gatekeeper I must cross before the Games and I'd rather not tip anybody off, not even him.

Thankfully it's over much sooner than I thought it would be. I leave with a shake to Caesar's hand and applause behind me.

No sooner am I out of sight I clamber my way up to the rafters. I might as well keep my skills sharp and learn some information while I'm at it.

It's disappointing.

The girl from Four is just another generic career. I feel like that's why those brutes don't win as much anymore, they're all basically the exact same when you get down to it. A brute is still a brute, whatever their colours. The boy from Four is grumpy with a hidden soft side, just a cliché.

The Fives don't remotely interest me.

The small boy from Six would be a great target. His screams will likely be the highest pitched of everybody.

The only one that makes me curious is the boy from Seven – Rottway. No doubt he'll scream and bleed easily enough, but that little poem – he claims it was written by his dad – just seems a little… sinister.

Look at me, calling somebody else sinister. Now _there's_ a hypocrite in the mirror.

" _Once more into the fray_

 _Into the last good fight I'll ever know_

 _Live and die on this day_

 _Live and die on this day_."

He's got it all wrong. He'll live for now and die within the next three to five days if I have my way.

I always do.

* * *

 **RON**

"This is gonna suck."

I'm right. Nobody could argue it after taking a look at the arena. Another forest, but this one… I've been in the arena ten seconds and already something is sinister about it, more than a typical arena anyway.

Maybe it's the hundreds of trees and how they grow ridged and creepy. Maybe it's the overgrowth of plant life on the ground. Maybe it's the thick fog and mist, lightly tinted purple, that covers the area beyond the cornucopia's clearing.

Yeah, it's probably the fog and mist.

I can see Strap two pedestals to my left while Rottway is much further to my right. We exchange nods, ready to run into the fray. Nobody seems like they're going to run, not even the small boy from Six to my left nor the sobbing girl from Nine to my right.

The only sound beside the countdown and distant crying is the chuckles of the boy from Three. I've heard fear can make people laugh without meaning to. I don't blame him for being scared.

I'm the one planning to die and even I feel afraid.

The gong rings and I'm flying into the battle without hesitation. The plan was for Strap to gather medicine and water, me to gather food and some water if I can manage it while Rottway grabs us some weapons.

It's chaos from all around me. Shouts, cries, a scream of agony somewhere to my left and the sight of the boy from One cutting open the throat of the boy from Twelve right ahead of me. The sick bastard has the nerve to laugh about it.

Asshole.

I make a run for a bulky backpack, noting that the boy from Three is running parallel beside me. He reacts fast, shoving me down. I rise fast, but by then he's already claimed the backpack. On the other hand he's now having to evade the knife wielding Fives.

Just enough of a distraction for me to grab a backpack filled with bread and a mace laying beside it. Not my ideal weapon, but it'll do.

I hear Strap call for help. One look and I can see that he's pinned down on his front by the girl from Six. She's fumbling to raise her knife, Rottway is too far away to get there in time… and now it falls to me. One life for another. Blood for blood.

Stupid escort picking that damn piece of paper.

I smash the mace down onto the girl's head. I have no idea who she was, but she falls over dead in an instant. I help Strap up, trying not to think about the murder I just committed.

I don't want to think about her family. Did she have one? Were they close?

Rottway runs over, practically pulling us along to the dog outside the clearing. I take one look back at the dead girl, soon wishing I hadn't.

Pain explodes in my shoulder before we're out of the fray.

"Fuck! Fucking damn it!"

* * *

 **LOTHAR**

I'll admit, the knife I threw at the boy from Four's shoulder was more for a laugh than anything else. He's last on the killing list. If he plans to die anyway, where's the fun in bleeding him dry? He doesn't care.

The field is getting smaller now. Six bodies lay on the ground, all upon such beautiful pools of blood. I had no idea the little girl from Twelve had so much fluid inside her. She was so small, just a little bird.

The careers gather around the boy from Ten, tearing him apart. Such technique, such finesse… beautiful.

Their lack of presence at the mouth of the cornucopia gives me ample time to grab up a large length of rope. The perfect tool for my plans. Now if I just had a razor…

There is much work to be done! I sprint off into the fog before the careers can see me.

That is, after stabbing the girl from Eleven in her kneecap. I'll make that kill nice and easy for the careers.

"Pay attention Panem," I say to the cameras. "I'm your victor, I'll give you what it is you desire. I'll provide you with plenty of blood. You and I want the same thing – death, and lots of it."

All I need now is somewhere to set up my base of operations. Of course, finding such a place for the fun to begin is the real question…

* * *

 **RON**

By the time the anthem plays we're all exhausted. Luckily we found a secluded grove beyond a mass of thick bushes to spend the night in. We're unlikely to be in the worst spot of all the remaining tributes. Though for how long that'll stay true is anybody's guess.

We lay on our backs, weapons in hand and our gazes drawn to the thick canopy of the forest. There are a few holes within it, the starry sky visible far beyond. It's not a bad view.

It gave us the opening we needed in order to see the anthem. Girl from Three, girl from Six, girl from Seven, girl from Eight, boy from Ten, girl from Eleven and both from Twelve. Eight deaths, one of them my fault.

I'm glad Rottway and Strap don't say anything about it.

"Poor Yewmurr," Rottway says, softly sighing. "Only thirteen, she had no chance."

"Fabra wasn't much better. Fifteen, but… well, she was half blind. Knew it was coming, but it still sucks," Strap closes his eyes, lightly groaning.

"Were you close to them?" I ask.

"Not really, but… district loyalty, you know?" Rottway sits up. He takes three slices of bread from his backpack, passing one to Strap and I while keeping the last for himself. "Your partner is still alive. Any thoughts on that?"

"Yeah, I hope she dies. I'm not gonna be the one to do it, I'm not anything like Logger, but I don't want her to win. She's a _career_ ," I practically spit out the last word. "Freaks like that don't deserve to win."

"That's a lot of hate," Rottway notes.

"What, you disagree? Rottway, Algae willingly signed up to murder children so she can become famous. That's messed up," I lay back down, closing my eyes. "I volunteered to save Fenner, not that it did any good. I only killed that girl to save Strap… fuck, I didn't enjoy it."

"I believe you," he speaks the truth, I can tell. "The careers have been on a losing streak lately. Perhaps we can extend it if we fight hard enough."

"It's that or die," Strap adds. "…Thanks for saving me Ron."

I softly grunt. He takes it to mean he's welcome, settling down once more. Of course, sleep just can't come easy to me, can it? Rottway seems keen to keep talking.

"So, Algae is a career then?" he waits me for me to nod. "I'm confused, are Fours careers or not? You guys keep switching it up."

"I don't fucking know, I don't think about it. I guess we're halfway there? Some years we have careers, some years we don't and sometimes, like this year, only one of us is a career," I settle back down. "The district is split on it. Some people support it as it gives us a chance and spares a reaped kid, some of us like me think they're messed up shitbeasts."

"Here, here," Rottway agrees. "Well, for what it's worth, I'm glad you're not a career and that your district normally doesn't have them. I mean, four careers are bad enough, six is insane."

Rottway volunteers to take the first watch. I drift off on the forest floor, thoughts of home filling my head. Will it become a career's den after these Games? If Algae wins then maybe. The more career victors the more people who might put it into practise.

It's sick. I don't want Four's culture getting corrupted like those of One and Two did.

Right before I'm asleep a cannon fires. It's several moments before any of us say anything.

"…No screaming. Probably happened far away," Strap says.

Small relief, but it's something.

* * *

 **LOTHAR**

Dammit! A cannon means one less person to toy around with. I better work fast, much faster than I have been, or there's going to be no way I'll spill enough blood to satisfy myself.

Probably those careers finding somebody. They're too powerful, it's taking away the fun for the rest of us. Not that it'll do them any good in the end.

The girl from One will look lovely doused in red… mmmmmmmm…

The night has been cold and slow. It was easy enough to find a place to set up my lair, easier still to find all the supplies I'd need to make enough traps to keep the meat coming my way.

A grove covered in vines was all I needed. Hiding up in the trees provides me a perfect cover and a place to sleep. The vines were the ultimate resource to create snare traps. One foot in those and nobody is going to have any escape.

And, if I have my way, I'll be expanding the reach and sheer number of the traps with every passing day. Never enough to cover the whole arena, but certainly enough to trap most of my victims.

Now, if only I could test the traps…

"Aaaarrgh! What's going on?!"

I fly through the trees like some kind of squirrel. I'm over to where the little boy from Six hangs upside down in barely five seconds. I give him a cheerful wave, sitting on the branch closest to where he hangs.

"You look stuck. Need a hand?" I ask.

He whimpers and nods. It's hard not to chuckle over how comical he looks, just hanging around like that. Well, I'd be mad to turn down this opportunity.

One punch to his head and he's knocked out. After that it all comes naturally – gagging him with a rag, tying him up with rope and making sure the vine keeping him hoisted up is nice and tight.

When he eventually wakes up and sees the razor blade in my hand he screams like a banshee… or would if he wasn't gagged.

"The last boy your age I did this too… hmm, I'd like to say he lasted three hours? Let's see if you last longer," I slice a cut into his leg. "Don't disappoint me by dying too soon."

He's still conscious after an hour, by which point his knee tendons are split and blood covers every inch of his leg. It's mesmerising to witness it.

The boy leaves me disappointed when he dies an hour later. That's the problem with small tributes, they always bleed out far too fast. Not enough blood in them for a real show.

Eventually I move away, disappointed, for the hovercraft to collect the body. But… it never comes. I move back even further, but still nothing.

It all clicks together. They can't reach the body. In this position, dangling high up in the trees of the forest, the thick canopy all around, it'd be impossible for a proper removal. They'd probably have to get people on the ground, but that would mean interference. They can't be doing that during the Games, can they?

"Looks like you're stuck here for a while," I tease the corpse. "Hope you don't mind hanging out with me a little longer."

The dead boy, of course, says nothing. But it's not hard to imagine what his family might be saying. Screams of despair, curses to my name, shouts that cannot be understood.

Perfect. Now, who will be my next target? …And how can I lure them over here? If I just add the pieces then I could build a… of course!

"Hey, anybody want to help me out?" I say to a nearby camera. "I need a few components to build a little, shall we say, trump card of mine."

* * *

 **RON**

Another cannon went off during the night. No idea who it was, only that it wasn't Rottway or Strap. Part of me wonders if it was Algae, her aspirations of victory given a horrific slap of reality. I guess I won't know until the anthem arrives tonight.

We've been wandering through the forest aimlessly, though it's hard to say if we've been making any progress. We have no destination and the fog stops us seeing anything more than a few paces ahead of us. We saw a figure a while back, but they were gone too quickly for us to know who it was and if we should have fought them or not.

"Do we have any idea where we're going?" I eventually ask. "Or are we just wandering and hoping we find something good."

"Honestly, I don't know," Rottway shrugs. "I figure that it's better to stay moving rather than remain in one place."

"I sure hope you're right," I glance around at the fog, grumbling. "This sucks. We can't see shit."

"True, but at least the others can't either," he lightly cracks his knuckles. "Not even the careers."

Suddenly I don't mind the fog quite so much. On and on we go, wandering without a goal with the foliage cracking and crumpling under our boots. It's impossible to tell what time it is. Day or night, I'm clueless.

"How's your shoulder Ron?" Strap asks around the time we pass a filthy pond. "Still bad?"

"It was never bad, I can use it just fine," I flinch from the throbbing that ensues when I move my arm around. "Just stings like hell. I'll live, for now."

"If you need a break don't hesitate to ask," Strap weakly smiles. "We're a team, we can spare five minutes."

Rottway nods, leading us through more thick bushes and plant growths. In a sudden moment a distant scream fills the forest. It's silenced by the time our weapons are drawn. Five seconds pass. Then ten. A minute. Two minutes.

Nothing.

"What do you think that was?" Strap asks, wary.

"Another kill, though the lack of a cannon is concerning," Rottway frowns, as if trying to piece it all together. "Maybe they escaped?"

"After that sudden stop? No, I doubt it. Whoever it was probably got knocked out and now their attacker is waiting for them to wake up. Just a theory," I put my weapon away, shaking my head. "Might be the careers."

"Perhaps. If it is then let's go this way," Rottway leads us in the direct opposite direction of the scream.

All I know for sure is that it wasn't Algae. That scream was too young to be hers and chances are if anybody attacked her then the others careers would just move in to take out her would-be killer. It's doubtful they'd betray Algae this early.

Whoever it was, it wasn't a career. Just my luck.

* * *

 **LOTHAR**

I'm kept up past the anthem – turns out the one I didn't kill was the girl from Nine - cutting away at the boy from Nine. He held out longer than the boy from Six did, but he just couldn't hang in there after he lost most of his fingers and an eye.

Well, actually he is. He's hanging beside the boy from Six, his blood left to drip down to the forest floor below. I wonder how many bodies I can get up here eventually. I bet I can get ten if I really try hard enough.

Three hours, that's how long the Nine male held out for. But, razor beats flesh and he soon died just like the rest of them. He was never going to last long. No, not like the careers. I hope I can catch one of them next. I think I might have the perfect way to do it.

I'll just have to be careful. But thanks to the music box I built from sponsored parts I shouldn't have to worry too much.

Careers flock to noise like flies to honey.

It's to my dismay that I'm forced to wait until the fourth day for my next victim. I'd almost dozed off when I hear the sounds of voices nearby. Five of them. The careers of course.

One moment I'm puzzling over how to get just one of them to hear the music box. The next moment one of them slips over something and falls down a steep slope until they're right beside my lair.

"Emblem! You alright down there?" one of the other males calls out.

"I'm fine. I'll meet you guys up ahead. This slope is too steep to climb," she begins walking towards one of my traps. My grin widens. "See you in five minutes."

The other careers move onwards while I fly through the trees above the girl from One, 'Emblem'. Any moment now…

She stops right in front of the trap, wasting everybody's time with her insistence on drinking from her bottle of water. Time is blood and I'm not losing any of it.

The soft melody of the music box fills the air around us. She glanced around, ever so confused.

"What's that?" she raises up a pair of shurikens. "Come out and die!"

She steps backwards… right into the trap. I'm on her like a spider would be on a fly. She barely gets a chance to swear before I've got her gagged and tightly bound by rope. She glares at me, struggling viciously as I roll up her sleeve and the legs of her pants.

"Mmrrrppphh!"

"It's rude to talk when your mouth is full," I have no patience for those who lack such basic manners.

"Mppprrrh… mph…" she trails off when she sees the bloodied bodies of the boys from Six and Nine. Ah, there's the panic I adore so very much. "MRRRPPPHH! MHHHH! MPHPHHH! MMMPPPHHH!"

"They didn't last more than a few hours," I flip out the razor blade. "Let's aim for ten, shall we?"

I'm impressed. Most stop struggling so much after the tenth gash in their skin, but Emblem keeps up the fight until the fortieth. By then it's such a matter of making little cuts, digging my fingers into the gashes and seeing how long she'll last.

She starts to approach death by the seventh hour. That certainly won't do, will it?

"Could somebody send in some medical supplies? She's dying and I'd rather she live," I say to the camera closest towards us.

If she dies then the fun stops. It shouldn't be too hard to fix her up and start the process over again. Who knows, maybe she'll wake up again. Wouldn't that be something?

* * *

 **RON**

Six days in this hellhole and we've somehow avoided fights since the Games began. Rottway and Strap are happy about this, but I'm doubtful it's going to last. Any second now a mutt will be set onto us or maybe the careers will find us. They always find their prey eventually, one way or the other.

The girl from One died on the fourth night, but the two deaths since then weren't careers. Just the boy from Eleven and the girl from Ten. They still hold a number advantage. I keep jerking my head around to look at the thick fog all around us. I'm convinced the pack is going to be barrelling through the fog and sticking their weapons into our throats any moment.

Overall, not the best birthday I've ever had. Then again, the first fourteen were nothing special. Why hold out much hope for the fifteenth?

"Can we take a break?" Strap asks.

"Sure. Let's take ten," Rottway sits down on a log, chugging from one of his water bottles. "Either of you know where we are? This arena all looks the exact same to me."

"No clue," Strap says between tired breaths.

"Hell if I know," I shrug, just as lost as they are. "It's not the cornucopia, so there's that."

"Whoa, big help," Rottway shakes his head. "Honestly, raiding the cornucopia doesn't sound like a bad idea right about now."

"Careers," Strap reminds him.

"Three on one, we could win," he puts his bottle away. "Once more into the fray, and all that."

That reminds me of the poem he spoke back in his interview. I ask him where that four line poem came from, what it means… why he'd said it. Rottway smiles, no doubt happy to explain whatever the story behind it actually is.

"A poem my dad wrote," he briefly frowns, no doubt missing his old man. "Basically it means we all have to die at some point, but we might as well make the best of the life we have. It's about… I guess having courage before danger and being sure you've lived well prior. Seems fitting, what with us being in the Hunger Games."

I can't say I disagree. I'm fine to help either one of Rottway and Strap win this thing, but if I to pick between them both somehow… I'd want Rottway to go home. I feel THAT, of everybody, he has the most to live for.

Fuck, look how messed up that line of thought is. As if I have the right to call one boy more worthy of living than another.

We jump up, weapons drawn out of habit. A cannon just fired… it fades into silence. Nothing else happens to us.

"How many left now?" Strap asks.

I shrug, having lost court, but Rottway is quick to provide an answer. "Boy from One, both from Two, boy from Three, Algae, Ron over here, both from Five, me, you… well, we're all fine obviously. One of the others, no idea who. Maybe the boy from three? He was the only loner left"

"So, it might be us against the careers with the allied Fives in the middle?" I punch the tree closest to where I'm sitting. "Fuck."

"Fuck," Strap agrees, shaking his head.

"Fuck," Rottway finishes.

* * *

 **LOTHAR**

It was a shame that the boy from Eleven died outside of my grasp – probably those annoying careers at it again – but at least the girl from Ten was fun to toy around with. I wonder if anybody will see her severed foot within the bushes on the ground.

I can't call myself lonely, not when the bodies of the boy from Six, the boy from Nine, the girl from One, the girl from Ten and most recently the boy from Five are hanging round me in my treetop home. Now it's just a matter of playing the waiting game until the girl from Five wakes up. She's bulky, she might actually hold on past ten hours. I guess time will tell.

But, the problem. Yes, the _problem_. The only ones left aside this girl are the four careers and that alliance of big brothers. Getting them apart may involve a bit of luck. I was fortunate that the Fives followed the music and fell into snares at the exact same time. I might not get that lucky again.

I can't dwell on it for much longer before the girl from Five wakes up. She loses control of her bowels from the moment she sees the bodies hanging around, all mostly dry of blood by this point. Her nose must not be used to the rotting like I am. Oh well, what can be done about that?

"The record is nine and a half hours. Shall we see how long you can keep playing the game?" I ask.

"MMMPPPHHHH!"

It troubles me, having to rely on luck to catch the rest of the tributes. There's a world of difference between two people and three. I ponder the problem while slicing the girl's nose off. I'm sure there's an answer, something I'm missing.

"MMMMMPPPPPPHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

"Oh, be quiet would you? I'm trying to think!"

Off goes the ear and then the other. Now then, lips or eyes?

* * *

 **RON**

The anthem yesterday confirmed that it was the fives who died. The pair that got along so well back during training.

Their bond reminds me of what I have now with Rottway and Strap. If only I'd known them before the Games. It would have been nice. I've not really had anybody beside Fenner in so long.

It's nice.

"Think we should try and recruit the boy from Three if we find him?" Strap asks, leading us along through the thickest part of the arena.

"Why bother? He didn't look so tough," I think back to the lanky boy who appeared so very average in training. "He'd probably just run from us if we did find him."

"He's probably smart right? Most Threes are," Rottway points out a bush of poisonous flowers, the three of us diverting our path towards the left. "He'd have to know that his best shot is gaining some allies and then us hopefully taking out the careers."

"Seems like a lot of assuming," I remark.

Rottway just chuckles. "Welcome to the arena."

We wander for five minutes, nothing of any note happening. Strap starts off a simple game of eye spy to keep things from falling into a creepy silence.

It's five minutes into the game when Strap vanishes into the trees. A snare of some sort had to be the culprit.

"Strap! Strap, we'll get you down!" Rottway glances around for the best tree to climb up. "Stay calm!"

"Cut the vine!" I add for good measure.

"No! No! Get away from me!" Straps' voice cracks from up in the trees. "NOOOOOOOO!"

A screech, a splatter. Something hits the ground beside us.

It's Strap's left leg from the knee down. His right hand follows a moment later. Blood pours down like rain. My throat burns from my screams. Rottway is even louder. He's rooted to the spot, screaming for Strap between fits of vomiting.

There's no hope left for Strap but I can still make sure Rottway makes it home. I'm forced to grab him from behind, my arms restraining his own as I drag him away from whatever carnage is going on in the trees.

"C'mon, run! We have to run!" I shake Rottway a little. "Do you want to see what mutt did that? I don't! Let's move!"

Rottway comes back to his sense right as the cannon fires. We lock eyes as one, knowing that whatever did that to Strap is surely going to be coming after us next.

We tear off through the arena, sprinting side by side until it's too painful for us to keep moving. We must have run four miles, at least.

Between wheezes and sickly groans we let the tears fall. Strap was a good guy… not just a good ally, but somebody I grew to see as a friend. Now there's only one person left I can claim to care for in this world.

Rottway must make it home, no matter what happens.

Nothing else matters anymore.

Strap…

* * *

 **LOTHAR**

It was a shame that I couldn't take my time with the boy from Eight. Rush jobs never feel right. It's just a mess to be forced to make one happen. The boy hangs immobile with several pieces missing… well, at least he served his purpose. His fallen limbs scared off the rest of his allies and they thought it was a mutt of all things.

I would almost be offended if I hadn't been called worse things before now.

With that alliance taken care of it would seem the only real problem now is the career pack. How will I break them apart? Especially before they break apart on their own and leave me without any kills?

I suppose that I could try the same trick again and hope a fallen limb scares the rest of them off.

It's a day before anybody else comes by my hideout, even with the traps becoming more numerous. I've had nothing but free time to build them after all. The voices of the careers enter my ears before I spot them.

They don't see me at all. Nor the crossbow I was sponsored mere hours ago. How very convenient.

"How does this keep happening?" the boy from Two looks ever so pissed off. "Some asshole keeps stealing our kills!"

"Maybe it's a mutt?" the boy from One says. "Not like they've never had super powerful mutts, right?"

"True, but… seriously, that many tributes dying to mutts? Or, just one of them?" the boy from two shakes his head. "This is ridiculous."

"Just be glad we have a number advantage," the girl from Two says. "Just three more to go. Those two volunteers and that oddball from Three. Algae, you know Ron. Is he somebody to worry about?"

The girl from Four, Algae, just chuckles. "He's nothing. He has nothing. He doesn't even care about winning, he wants to die."

The careers all sound stumped by this. Most blatantly suicidal tributes would just jump to the mines. The boy from One makes his disbelief known.

"I'm serious. If we kill the boy from Seven then he'd probably just give up and let us kill him," she glances away for a moment. "One of you has to do it. I'm not crossing the taboo line."

"No worries, I'll get rid of him," the boy from Two flexes his muscles. "Been wanting another kill on my record anyway."

I let the music box drop, playing its tune nice and clear. The careers all move towards it, all disappointed and a bit confused when they see it's not a tribute at all.

The girl from Two is stood a bit far back, but the rest are positioned perfectly. It's all too easy to line up a shot and shoot the arrow into the shoulder of the boy from Two. He cries out and stumbles forth, knocking the boy from One and Algae into snares. They're yanked up to my left near instantly. One look at the bodies and a whiff of the scent of rotting death has them screaming their lungs dry.

"What is it?!" the girl from Two sounds afraid now. Ah, wonderful.

"Death! It's death!" Algae is panicking. "So many bodies!"

I knock her out with a smack of the crossbow to her head. No need to give the game away. The boy from One spots me, trying his hardest to swipe at me. He manages to make a tiny cut on my cheek.

That won't go without a punishment.

A second arrow has the Twos quick to abandon their allies and flee further away into the forest. No matter, I'll catch them eventually. But until then I have business to be getting along with. Gagging and tying these two cocky careers up barely takes a minute.

The boy from One gazes at me, torn between defiance and terror.

Tracing the razor near his eyelids has him pissing himself.

"You cut me. I didn't like that," I move the razor to his leg, making a tiny cut. A taste of what is to come. "Shall we see how long you last? Three, two, one, go!"

The razor enters his eye. It enters just about everywhere else as well.

I take so long with him that I don't realise that Algae has woken up, not only she begins rocking around and screeching into her gag. Hmmm, eight hours. I really thought the boy from One would last longer. I'd not give him eight minutes at this point.

"You volunteers amuse me, you really do. But, you also puzzle me," I trace the razor along her lips. "Did you not think about what may happen if your t raining weren't enough? If an 'outlier' had a few tricks up his sleeve? Oh, don't bother answering, I'm not dying to know or anything. Now you… you're just plain dying. Let's see if you'll last longer than this lot.

Her lips are the first things I slice off and far from the last.

I wonder if the Capitol would let me live in this arena once the Games end. I have to admit, it's a far nicer place than District Three ever was. I feel alive in here. Free as a bird.

Who wouldn't want to live so freely?

* * *

 **RON**

It's been a miserable few days since Strap died. Rottway and I were losing hope, hope that he would be the one to make it out of this hell in the end.

But then two of the careers died and suddenly we may have a chance again. Maybe. The Twos are the strongest people in this arena and who even knows what the boy from Three has been up to since the start.

Rottway doesn't even know I intend to die so he can go home. I wonder how he might feel about it… honestly, he'd be mad to have an issue with it. His odds are looking great.

Or, they would be if we had any idea where we were. We've wandered alone together ever since we evaded whatever it was that killed Strap. We're covered in dirt, dead leaves and stains of our own puke. We must look terrible.

"Should we take a rest?" Rottway asks, blankly stumbling along.

"If you want. I'm fine to do whatever you'd like," I wipe away from of the dirt from my face.

He looks slightly puzzled. "Well, sure, but I wanna know what you think."

"…May as well keep going. We've kept on the move for days, we can keep going a little longer. Not like this will last much longer," I yawn, tired out of my mind. "You'll be home soon."

"That'd be the dream," he yawns as well. "Wait, I'll be home? What about you?"

I shrug. Not like I need to hide anything. "I have nobody left I care about back home. You have a whole family. You're the only friend I've got. The moment it's just us left I'm bashing my own brains out."

It's some time before Rottway has any response. He silently pulls me in for a tight hug. It's awkward for sure, but I don't think there's any talking him out of this.

"…Are you done?" I ask after several long moments.

"Yeah, I'm done," he awkwardly laughs. Sorry, it's just… we only met a few weeks ago, if that. Now you're willing to die for me. I know you say you have nothing, but… dying… you cannot come back from that. All out of friendship… it's just…"

"I know, it's really something," I weakly let out a chuckle as we keep moving through the overgrowth. "But we're not done yet, still three left to go."

"…Might be two in a moment," Rottway says, taking out his axe. "Look."

On the ground lays the boy from Two. His shirt is gone, a nasty shoulder wound visible for all to see. It's far worse than my own was. Infection of some sort has spread across much of that quarter of his back. A nasty pus leaks from the centre of the wound and trickles down his back.

He rolls over when we approach him. He doesn't even look afraid to see us looming near, weapons drawn.

"Just do it," he whimpers. "Whether you kill me or not you're still fucked."

"…What the hell are you talking about?" I glance at Rottway, but he's as lost as I am.

The boy coughs weakly. "There's a monster in the trees and it's no mutt. I saw it, I barely got away… it's gonna kill all of you…"

"What is it?" I shake him, trying to keep him talking. "If it's not a mutt then what is it? Who is it?"

He doesn't say anything else, having fallen unconscious. I can only sigh. There's nothing more to be gained here, not when he's unlikely to wake up again.

Rottway brings his axe down and chops the tribute number down to four.

Just two more to go and he can get out of here.

* * *

 **LOTHAR**

I'm not too torn up over missing my chance to kill the boy from Two. The anthem merely confirms the girl from Two is all alone now and that I just have one alliance left to split up.

It couldn't be easier.

Actually, it could be. Not even a full day after the boy from two dies the brother alliance come by my territory again. How unfortunate for them that the fog prevents them from realising that they're returning to the place their friend from Eight met his demise.

Not that I'm complaining, mind you.

"Any ideas where they might be?" the boy from Four asks.

"Girl from Two is probably at the cornucopia. Boy from Three could be anywhere at all," the boy from Seven leans against a tree to take a few breaths. "This might take a while."

"If it lasts too long the gamemakers will just drive us together. I'll back you up, no matter what," the boy from Four barely avoids stepping in one of the snares. "You're gonna make it home."

The boy from Seven smiles. "Thanks Ron. I'll… seriously, I'll never forget you. I won't let anybody forget you. You're solid."

How amusing that then, of all times, is when the boy from Seven steps into one of my snares. He's up in the trees with me in an instant. While he tries to get his bearings I waste no time firing a few arrows down at the boy from Four – Ron, wasn't it? – in hopes of driving him off. I'd rather he not get in the way.

How annoying that he keeps dodging the arrows. He keeps calling out for his friend, Rottway, yelling that he'll save him.

"Ron! It's the-." I knock the boy unconscious before he can say another word.

Ron's almost close enough to start climbing my tree. Urrrgh, I guess I'll have to maker this kill quick. I'd really hoped to be able to draw it out for a while.

It's easy to cut off the arm of one of the dead tributes and toss it to the ground. In the fog and the night it's too dark for Ron to know it's not Rottway's arm. He howls in despair, tears already starting to fall. With screams of agony and vows of revenge he stumbles away into the night. I fire off an arrow for good measure. Alas, I miss.

"Annoying kid," I roll my eyes, looking at his unconscious ally. "Well, better kill you fast or he'll get suspicious. Can't have him trying to save you or bother me."

One slashed throat and the cannon booms. Just a career and a nobody left. Now, whose screams do I want to hear next?

Obviously the career. Where oh where could she be?

* * *

 **RON**

It was the worst night of my life. I couldn't stop sobbing and even now I can't stop sobbing. Everybody I've ever loved and cared about is officially dead. Mom, dad, my uncles, my aunts, Fenner, Strap, Rottway…

There's no point anymore. I have no reason to live. I've tried to smash my head with the mace a few times, but I fail to bring myself to do it. Why? It's not like I fear death or the pain that comes with it.

Maybe I'm being a coward.

Maybe I don't want to go down without a fight. Yeah, that's it. I want to kill whatever it was that killed Strap and Rottway. The monster up in the trees. The monster I've been unable to glimpse.

I sit at the base of a tree, my head in my hands. The misery is suffocating. I can hardly breath.

Just yesterday things seemed perfect. I had a friend, we cared about each other and he was certain to go home.

But, not certain enough.

I don't know how long I sit here, hopeless. Maybe an hour, maybe a day. I honestly couldn't begin to tell you. The only thing that gets me moving is the sponsor parachute that lands in front of me.

An energy drink in a glass bottle, complete with a note attached.

 _-Don't give up. You're so close. They may be gone, but through your victory they will live on forever. You can still win this thing._

 _Finnick.-_

I grip the bottle tightly, almost enough for it to crack.

I chug down the entirety of the contents. It must be an energy drink of some kind because I feel completely revitalised. As if, for a moment, I don't feel like complete shit.

I feel ready for a fight.

The cannon fires.

* * *

 **LOTHAR**

I drop the face I cut off the girl from Two. Hmmm, I really expected more of her. They just don't make tributes, least of all careers, as strong as they used to.

Well, I suppose my summer vacation is coming to its end. Just one more to go and then I earn my victor status.

Where is Ron hiding?

"I'm quite comfy where I am," I say towards the sky. "Would you kindly send the last one towards me? I'll wait for him here."

Half an hour passes without event, long enough for me to wonder if they might be ignoring me. Why would they ignore their star killer of the year?

I smile when the sound of footsteps draws near. Time for the finale to begin.

* * *

 **RON**

Snakes. So many of them. A hoard of the bastards chasing me on and on through the forest.

Herding me towards the final battle. It's probably the girl from Two left. She scored a ten in training, she surely would've killed the boy from Three. He was just another low scorer.

That's what I thought at least. When the snakes are called off, leaving me to wander into a silent clearing, I see my final opponent up in the trees.

The boy from Three.

"Welcome," he says, almost warm… something's off about him, I can tell right away. "Welcome to my little hideout. Took you long enough."

"Let's just do this quickly. There's a monster out there, neither of us want to meet it," I frown upon seeing his grin. "…Why are you smiling?"

"How about I show rather than telling?" he vanishes up into the branches. "Just a moment."

A moment is all it takes.

Bodies, lots of them. I recoil in revulsion, horrified by the number of dead bodies – dead tributes! – that land around the clearing. The boy from Six, the boy from Nine, the mutilated pair from One… on and on it goes until what's left of Strap and Rottway fall to the ground.

Eleven bodies overall.

"You… you…" I can't get the words out.

"I bled them dry. That what you're trying to say?" the boy from Three chuckles from somewhere above me. "It wasn't hard. I've already done this to, like, eighty people already, Maybe eighty two? All about practise. And now, you're next."

It all clicks into place. The cannons, the words of the boy from Two, people vanishing into the trees… shit. This isn't just a nasty tribute, this is a _serial killer_.

If I die then he can just keep his rampage going.

…Not if I have anything to say about it!

"Why not just let me kill you?" he says, lowering himself back into sight. "You said it yourself, you wanted to die. You _craved_ death. What changed?"

"I made friends," I say. "They may be dead, but something else changed… I met you. If I lose, you win. I'm not letting that happen, freak."

I only manage to run one step forwards before a vine snare yanks me into the trees above. My mace falls to the ground below, vanishing under the overgrowth.

Shit!

* * *

 **LOTHAR**

It's amusing hearing Ron's words of scorn and then watching him fall into my traps, same as anybody else. Even moreso seeing the way he's wriggling around like some kind of huffy bug.

I'm over to him in a flash, holding out my razor towards him.

"Let me hear you scream," I say, purring.

He screams loud.

ACK! I let out a screech, blood flowing down my face as I fall backwards off the branch. By the time I stand up he's untied himself and stands himself up at the far side of the clearing.

How… how did he untie himself?

How?

"I've dealt with that at work for years," Ron says, spitting out a few drops of blood. He holds a knife, the one he slashed open my cheek with. "Did you never think about what you'd do if somebody managed to escape your ambush?"

He points his knife at me.

"I am going to kill you," he speaks with pure, utter hatred.

I just snicker. My crossbow fell somewhere out of sight, but that matters little. I made sure to grab an axe from the cornucopia just in case. Seems like I'll finally be putting it to some good use.

"You're gonna wish you'd just jumped to the landmines, boy."

* * *

 **RON**

I stand my ground, but I can't hide my fear. I'm just about out of supplies while this maniac has surely gotten way more sponsors than I have. My mace is gone, I have no medical gear… it's just a a knife, a bottle and a roll of duct tape.

It'll do.

I keep my gaze on him. I leer at the monster as I tape the knife to one hand and the bottle to my other. One strike upon a rock and the bottle shattered, its broken remains forming a makeshift weapon for me to use.

I will kill him.

He's much stronger than me. So many kills compared to my one which was only possibly because the girl hadn't watched her back.

Still, I will kill him.

He's a monster. If I lose he'll surely draw it out for hours. Maybe a day if it's even possible.

Still, I will kill him.

He's stronger than me in just about every way. Even with the cut I just gave him he's far tougher than I could ever be.

Still… **I**. **WILL**. **KILL**. **HIM**.

"A knife? A bottle? Is that all you have?" he asks, chuckling.

"It's all I'm going to need," I hold up my fists. "If anything, you're the one who is underequipped."

He just laughs. "You think I care? No. Any last words Ron?"

I think of all those I ever loved. All those who I've managed to outlive, unfairly. All of them deserved to live more than I did.

Fenner… Strap… Rottway…

My eyes narrow, ablaze with determination.

I picture Rottway once last time. "Once more into the fray. Into the last good fight I'll ever know. Live and die on this day… live and die… on this day…"

We glare at one another for a moment.

We both roar as we charge towards each other, meeting in the middle of the clearing for a savage duel to the death. His axe strikes my shoulder and his fist meets my ribs hard enough for them to crack.

My knife digs into his arm and the glass bottle cuts his face.

Blood is everywhere and we're both screaming.

 **He better scream**. _**I'm only just getting started**_!

* * *

With one final look down at Ron the star crossed lovers of District Twelve continued their walk down the street. They were getting very close to the end by now.

Ten steps ahead they came to the next imprinted face along the massive street, one of an awkward looking boy wearing a toque hat. His eyes were diverted to the side, his expression a mixture of awkward and curious. In general he looked fairly scruffy.

"You know, I always thought mutts were terrifying beasts," Peeta began. "…And I still do. But Skinner? He made facing them look so easy."

"I don't think he even realised he was in the Games at all. He didn't talk much and he was never hunting for tributes," Katniss could only shake her head. "He had a much bigger target all along."

* * *

Hope you all enjoyed these Games. Did they make your skin crawl at all? It sure made me feel a bit like that as I was writing. I think the fact we kept swapping between Ron and Lothar made things a lot better than it would have been had I just stuck with Ron as the narrator. If nothing else it sure gave us a look at just how vile some tributes can be, huh? Partly I feel like the chapter was more about Ron's journey from wanting to die to having a reason to fight and live, opposed to us seeing yet another duel to the death, hence why it cut out where it did. Kinda plays a touch into how some of this chapter was inspired by the general feel of the ever amazing yet tragic film 'The Grey'. Anyway, stay tuned for more, guys, we've got one of the last Catching Fire victors looming near, and a mystery of canon I intend to answer once and for all. Stay tuned…

* * *

 **Stats**

 **District 1:** Peridot Gaudy (8th Games), Crystal McCree (14th Games), Bronze Marley (19th Games), Crown Martins (24th Games), Dollar Dettwieller (32nd Games), Mascara Court (41st Games), Platinum Twist (44th Games), Gloss Lord (63rd Games), Cashmere Lord (64th Games), Augustus Braun (67th Games)

 **District 2:** Baron Overwhill (4th Games), Runa Peace (7th Games), Olga Machete (10th Games), Rook Valiant (17th Games), Boulder Atherston (20th Games), Vercingetorix Carnby (25th Games), Dragon Batofel (27th Games), Rhyder Overwhill (39th Games), Mercy Gregor (46th Games), Brutus Gunn (49th Games), Lyme Rabe (51st Games), Enobaria Golding (62nd Games)

 **District 3:** Honorius Perthshire (5th Games), Pi Orbit (22nd Games), Beetee Latier (37th Games), Wiress Plummer (47th Games), Yohan Fairbane (58th Games)

 **District 4:** Museida Selkirk (3rd Games), Mags Flanagan (11th Games), Tide Luther (23rd Games), Librae Ogilvy (35th Games), Anchor Paddock (52nd Games), Finnick Odair (65th Games), Ron Stafford (68th Games)

 **District 5:** Shunt Gaspar (12th Games), Isobel Sparks (18th Games), Crimson Flanders (29th Games), Porter Tripp (38th Games), Neon Erg (48th Games), Wattzon Holmes (55th Games), Arendellian Spinner III (57th Games)

 **District 6:** Chassis Macalister (31st Games), Bentley Corduroy (54th Games), Porsche London (56th Games)

 **District 7:** Pliny Aransio (2nd Games), Fir Buzz (9th Games), Jack Tylos (21st Games), Snag Nakamura (34th Games), Blight Jordan (53rd Games), Logger Barlow (61st Games)

 **District 8:** Woof Casino (16th Games), Paige Murphy (30th Games), Spool Nylon (42nd Games), Cecelia Mog (60th Games)

 **District 9:** Mizar Aldjoy (1st Games), Gwenith Rosebud (13th Games), Teff Withers (28th Games), Laurel Flamsteel (36th Games), Tabbock Summers (43rd Games), Trevy Vex (Escaped 55th Games)

 **District 10:** Stallion March (26th Games), Lammy Phyronix (40th Games), Pasture Gallows (59th Games)

 **District 11:** Bear Redfoot (15th Games), Seeder Howell (33rd Games), Chaff Mitchell (45th Games), Spud Munroe (66th Games)

 **District 12:** Duke Saint-Rose (6th Games), Haymitch Abernathy (50th Games)


	70. Skinner Alecto

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Hunger Games. They belong to Suzanne Collins.

 **Note:** Fast as all heck update and the 500K milestone crossed! Woohoo! So, it occurs to me that Skinner may just be the most mysterious victor of those left. No prior mentions of major note, no early appearances like some of those yet to 'officially' debut and no appearances in other HG fics of mine. So, what is this guy's deal?! Well guys, I present to you Skinner Alecto, the ultimate mutt hunter whose only role in canon was to be a number and one who got torn apart by 'The Beast'. Lammy may have been a trapper, but that's more of a defensive profession. As for Skinner, he's not gonna lie in wait. He's gonna fight!

N.C.s 1 Fan, the sites are completely free, and I don't really accept help on my stories. I prefer to just write and see where it all takes me.

I reckon that's just about enough out of me. Hope ya'll enjoy the chapter!

* * *

"It felt like there were two Games being played that year," Peeta mused. "The normal Games between the other tributes and a second Games between Skinner and the mutts."

"Needless to say, he won both… ironic when you consider he didn't seem the care about the former," Katniss said, slightly bemused. "I think we got lucky we never saw him in the arena. I mean, he killed so many mutts and he wasn't in on any rebel plans, not even fragments of them. He could've attacked us."

Peeta nodded his uneasy agreement. "I guess we just got lucky… as usual. He didn't. The Beast got him."

"…Did you see him die?" Katniss asked, hesitant.

Peeta shook his head. "No. I just saw a glimpse of the monster approaching him. I didn't dare linger to see what happened next."

The two said nothing more. The moment of silence for Skinner had begun.

* * *

 **69** **th** **Annual Hunger Games**

 **Name:** Skinner Alecto

 **Gender:** Male

 **District:** 10

 **Age:** 16

 **Kills:** 2

* * *

 **THE HUNTER**

There exists a rather disturbing fact in the nation of Panem, or at least one more disturbing than the norm at any rate.

Mutts can breed and sometimes explosively so.

Throughout the Dark Days the Capitol deployed numerous mutts as part of the effort to crush the rebellion. But they never ended up getting rid of the mutts that survived the war, of which there were quite a few. This wasn't just limited to tracker jacker nests left within the districts, but also mutts of a much more dangerous nature.

Some were small and could be handled easily enough if it were just one or two of them at once – Saturn Beetles and Pale Rodents – whereas others were of a far more dangerous sort of nature – Winged Death and Reapers – that put various district families at serious risk.

More risk than they were already in under Capitol rule anyway.

No district had more leftover mutts to live in fear of than District Ten. The wide open ranges of fields combined with the livestock serving as prey for the mutts made it the perfect habitat for them to breed and prosper.

It was quite the dreadful inconvenience.

However, there was one boy that has arisen to deal with the problem. In fact, he didn't just 'deal with it'. Skinner Alecto outright excelled at it. There are some things in life that some people are simply made for and hunting mutts was what Skinner was, bar none, the best at.

He could track them effortlessly, he knew all the hunting and fighting habits of each mutt he fought, he learnt new facts about the mutts at an incredibly fast rate, he was an expert at fighting them and barely taking a scratch… it was even rumoured that he knew how to cool the mutts and eat them for dinner!

Legend tells that several mutts – beings created to kill and to feel nothing but hatred – would flee in terror at the mere sight of Skinner walking by.

While many people knew _of_ Skinner, nobody could claim to know much _about_ him. He was a somewhat similar case to Fir when she first appeared many, many years ago. It was like he'd simply popped up out of thin air.

Unlike Fir, the details of where Skinner came from weren't overly hard for people to work out, especially after the Mockingjay Rebellion. He was a travelling nomad who got split off from the rest of his small scan during a typhoon. What started as hunting mutts out of sheer self defence and as a source of food turned into his destiny.

Wherever there was mutt related danger he would be there, weapon in hand to take out the mutts. It wasn't as if the Peacekeepers were going to do anything about it, right?

Skinner only tended to pop up during mutt attacks or at the yearly reaping, so few ever got to exchange more than a few words with him. Those that did were quick to see that he was a fairly awkward sort of person, clearly unused to talking with other people. He'd trail off into mumbles, he'd never make eye contact, he'd often wring his hands or scratch behind his ear.

He just didn't understand other people. Hunting mutts was all he knew.

Living in his own hermit home far out in the Badlands of Ten, he'd assure anybody who asked – no that anybody did – that he was perfectly content with his life. He'd killed thousands of mutts to make his district safer, he'd made plenty of furniture and knick-knacks out of mutt bones, he had something of a heroic reputation… what reason was there to feel unhappy for lacking a social life?

People were strange. He'd leave all that communication stuff to people who knew how to use words if he could help it.

The reaping of the Sixty Ninth Hunger Games was the one time he could not help it.

"Skinner Alecto!"

Skinner silently approached the stage, staring out at the crowd. He felt a little awkward with how people stared at him, but he tried to bare it the best he could. He had no fear of death, of careers, of the arena and especially not of mutts.

But he could really do without people staring at him. Hadn't they ever seen somebody dressed in an outfit made of several mutt hides before?

Clearly not.

* * *

 **THE TRAPPER**

I've never enjoyed the train tides too and from the Capitol. On the way there the tributes are often crying or at the very least miserable. On the way back it's either two dead tributes or a dead tribute and a victor overwhelmed by everything.

Even Pasture was a little rattled on the way home. Killing twelve people, even to reclaim her family's honour, took a lot more out of her than people thought.

I understand how she feels. I was horrified that I had it in me to send six people to their deaths with my traps. I didn't have to see them at the moment they died, but that doesn't help much. They still died.

At least I'll be able to see Spool tonight. He makes each trip to the Capitol worth it. If only I could move to Eight, or maybe he move to Ten…

It's a typically awkward dinner. Pasture practically inhales a massive platter of meat while the escort chides her over her lack of manners, Stallion eats with perfect table manner and focuses on eating vegetables first, the tributes just sit quietly and grab whatever catches their eyes… and I, as usual, stress eat.

It's not like I'm a glutton. It's just… any time I get scared or worried I eat. It makes me feel better. It's how I survive the train rides year after year. Nearly thirty years of mentoring and only one victor to show for it. As I said, it helps.

"So, guys," I push my plate to the side. "What sorts of skills do you have? Anything that might be useful in the arena?"

"Don't be shy, tell us anything you'd like," Pasture adds. "Beating people with shoes is a great skill they-who-dread."

"They're not as strong as you Pasture," I add, awkward. "Nobody is."

The girl, a fourteen year old from the richer parts of Ten, claims to be excellent with a butcher knife. One look at her and I feel like she should at least survive day one. It'll be an uphill battle, but perhaps Hay Jericho might have a chance.

The boy doesn't say much. He's been ever so quiet since the train ride started. Like he were off in his own little world. I'd assume he's locked up in fear, but… he doesn't look scared. He just looks shy if anything.

"Skinner?" I gently tap my spoon to a glass to get his attention. "Anything you'd like to share with us? Any skills?"

He glances to the side. "…I hunt mutts. Thousands of them."

…Oh! He's that Skinner. How did I not realise that before? A professional mutt hunter with such an extremely high body count, that's like a trapper with none of the waiting involved and about ten times the fighting and risk taking.

Hope starts to well up inside me. I've felt it many times before and been let down all but once, but perhaps Skinner has what it takes to be the victor. Maybe, just maybe…

"I like the sound of that, he-who-hunts," Pasture holds out a strong hand for Skinner to shake. "The daughter of a shepherd will gladly mentor you to victory!"

It's a moment before Skinner awkwardly accepts the offered handshake. It's a few moments longer before Pasture lets go, leaving him with a sore hand. I really need to remind her not to do that – she just doesn't know her own immense strength sometimes.

"So, Hay, who would you rather have mentor you?" I gesture between myself and Stallion. "Your choice."

Hay doesn't take long to decide. "Stallion's been coming to my family's butcher shop for ten years. I think I'll go with him."

"I'll do the best I can," Stallion gently shakes her hand. "We'll get you through this in one piece."

"Guess that's me on sponsor duty then," I say.

Normally it's hard to get any serious sponsors for District Ten. At this point we're almost last place in victors, tied only with Six and barely leading over Twelve. But maybe with Skinner's reputation as a legendary mutt killer we might just got some interest this time around.

Well, if we could get him to talk a bit more that is. I of all people understand being shy, but even I can say a few words and look people in the eye. Skinner's making the effort to try and avoid that as much as possible.

I suppose it's to be expected of somebody who lives the hermit lifestyle.

* * *

 **THE WALLOPER**

 _[Panem Forever, issue #10493. Post-Parade interview with Pasture Gallows Victor of 59_ _th_ _Hunger Games. Interview conducted by Twillet Bean.]_

 **Twillet Bean:** Hi Pasture! Big fan of you and your iconic twelve kills. Now, wasn't that quite the eventful parade we just saw?

 **Pasture Gallows:** I wish I could ride on the chariots again. I've asked and asked, but they-who-dictate claim only a tribute may ride. Feh! The daughter of a shepherd demands a second ride!

 **TB:** You'd have to be a tribute again for that, sorry Pasture! But speaking of tributes, what a wide variety this year both in appearance _and_ costume. The District One pair looked so fierce, I thought I might faint!

 **PG:** The Gallows clan does not talk to assholes. It's tradition. I can't comment on the Ones.

 **TB:** How about the Twos in their knight costumes?

 **PG:** A Gallows family member does not talk to douchebags either.

 **TB:** Well, can you comment on any of them?

 **PG:** The Threes looked like crazy doo-hickeys, the Sixes looked more like minimum wage airline attendants than hovercraft pilots, District Seven is so unoriginal with their tree costumes that I'm almost weeping from boredom… the Nines were acceptable.

 **TB:** Why's that? Do tell.

 **PG:** They were dressed like bread. I like bread.

 **TB:** I think a lot of us do.

 **PG:** Do you, she-who-speaks-the-obvious? Tell me, do you like the district ten tributes as well? Perhaps my tribute, Skinner?

 **TB:** He certainly looked formidable in the wolf pelt!

 **PG:** Formidable? Do you live in a cave?! He looked ferocious! Bet on him, he's hands down the most powerful tribute in the Games. You heard it here first, this will be District Ten's year!

 **TB:** You sound confident. How is Skinner different than the other district ten males besides Stallion?

 **PG:** They had names sparkle-shoes! As for what makes him different… it's quite simple. What other tribute, Ten or otherwise, has killed thousands of mutts before the Games? You tell me she-who-sparkles. Skinner isn't a talker, but he is a man of action. As is said by the youth of today, let the bloodshed begin!

 **TB:** I like blood!

* * *

 **THE STAMPEDER**

Dear Diary

The pre-Game events this year were interesting. Not to say they never are, but this year sticks out to me more than most. Maybe it's the fact that our tributes might stand a chance – both scored eights – or perhaps it's the fact I've hit it off really well with Hay. I've known of her for years, but I've really known her for who she is this week. She's really something, so skilled and full of life. I don't want Skinner to die, but I want Hay to win. I think she'd be a wonderful fourth victor.

But… no. The thing that makes it all so interesting can be summed up in just one word. Skinner. He's really unique, you could say. He doesn't like talking and he often goes out of his way to avoid other people. But when he does get talking, it's like he's got the mind of a genius. Not quite the way Beetee and Wiress do, but the stuff he says about mutts and everything to do with hunting them… I learn something knew every time he opens his mouth.

The other tributes didn't take to him very well. Most of them think he's either crazy or on drugs of some sort. The careers tried to harass him, they always go for the outcasts, but it was like he couldn't even see them. He just stared blankly past them and they ended up leaving. I can only go on second hand reports, but I tell you what, this boy is compelling.

It's just too bad his interview didn't go so well. He didn't like being in front of a crowd and hardly knew what to say in response to Caesar's questions. Only when Caesar bought up mutts did he come to life and really show what he was made of, but by then he only had forty seconds left. Still, he did better than the four who followed after him.

It's late as I write this. Just six hours and the tributes will be taken to the arena… I wish them all the best. I believe they can pull this off. If there's ever a year for us then it's this one. After what happened to Algae last year it seems District Four's odds of becoming a career district have died. None of them want to risk ending up like her. It scared 'em straight. Meanwhile One and Two are dealing with the recent passing of Peridot and looming passing of Runa, respectively. It might be enough to mess with the heads of those careers enough for our pair to stand a chance.

I feel sick writing all that stuff. Sicker than I felt in that damn sewer all those years ago, but that's the world we're in. That's how it is.

Hay was nervous for tomorrow but nonetheless determined. Skinner hardly seems concerned, as if he doesn't know what awaits him. He spent the night drawing pictures of mutts. Gotta say, they look pretty damn good.

I wonder if I'll see either of them again after tomorrow. Alive and outside the arena, that is. I guess I'll do what I always do – hope for the best and brace for the worst.

Stallion 'The Stampeder' March

* * *

 **THE HUNTER**

When Skinner is launched into the arena he doesn't react to the sight he sees. He hardly even blinks, merely gazing around the clearing and taking it all in, like how a curious kitten might observe fish in a river.

It's a scorching desert with cacti aplenty that the tributes have been put into this year. By the time the countdown is halfway over the tributes are all starting to sweat from the unforgiving heat. The scorching sun and the sight of water bottles scattered around the cornucopia ensures that not a single tribute is going to flee the bloodbath.

Even as the countdown ticks ever close towards zero, entering single digits, Skinner barely reacts. He stands calmly on his launch plate, wholly unbothered by anything going on. Even the heat doesn't seem to gain a reaction from him. He's too busy thinking, his usual blank stare plastered across his face.

Nobody knows what he could be thinking about.

The gong rings and all but one of the tributes charge into the fray in hopes of gathering as many supplies as possible and, in the case of the careers and a select few outliers, some kills to impress the sponsors with.

Skinner is the lone tribute not bothering to run into the fray. In fact, he doesn't run at all whether towards battle or away towards alleged safety. He just remains standing on his pedestal, still thinking to himself. He doesn't flinch at all when the boy from Nine has a chunk of his head smashed off nor when, a mere four pedestals down, the girl from One bashes the face of the boy from Eleven against the pedestal.

The most he does is scratch his chin.

Eventually he seems to have an idea of what to do, a moment after the girl from Two takes notice of how easy of a target he is. She throws a knife that seems sure to end up stuck in Skinner's throat.

It would have had he not calmly caught the knife by the handle in mid-air, a mere inch before it would've hit him. He turns to give the girl from Two a bemused look.

She remains rooted to the spot, stumped.

That's when Skinner finally made his move. He rocketed across the sandy clearing, grabbing up one of the largest backpacks, four bottles of water and a machete as he went. Nobody was able to stop him as he vanished over a nearby down and left into the desert.

The careers were, however, able to stop the small girl from Five makes a mistake. This time there was no amazing knife catching to prevent a knife being wedged into a throat.

Seven cannons fired. The Outliers scattered away, the careers began to take inventory and Skinner… he began to wander around the desert, as if searching for something only he knew about.

Nobody in Panem could claim to know what that thing might have been.

* * *

 **THE TRAPPER**

Gathering sponsor pledges is a tricky business. Come on too strong and the citizens begin to cry and whine over being treated badly. Come on too soft and it's like you don't even care about your own tributes. It's hard knowing where the balance lies.

Thankfully I've had years to practise this exact thing. People around the Capitol tend to give me a chance to at least speak to them – more than what those from Six and Eleven usually get. Even moreso than Haymitch gets. – because of my dad's legacy and how I killed the entire career pack back in my Games so long ago.

I've never liked being rewarded for murder. Just a few more years… a few more years and somebody to rally behind, then we can try to rebel once again.

I don't want to imagine what'd happen if the districts lost again.

My morning has been spent with Grunnix Hastings. I've heard tell from Finnick that he's a truly vile human being, certainly worse than a typical mutt when all is said and done. Alas, he's a vile person who has money.

Money that would really help my tribute. I'd love to say tributes, but Hay… she didn't make it past the bloodbath.

"The facts speak for themselves Grunnix. Every time a Ten is set to win something special always happens prior to the crowning. Stallion's amazing speed and how he caused a few deaths without needing to try, my array of traps eliminating the careers… and let's be frank, Pasture needs no explanation. She's herself, that's enough," I say. I try not to think of shoes. I've always shuddered at the mention of that word ever since Pasture won.

"That's all true Lammy," he pauses to smoke his cigar. "But what has Skinner done?"

"He caught a knife in mid-air. That's not something that anybody could do," I remind him. It is left unspoken that the poor girl from Five proves the point.

"Fair enough, a point well made. But tell me this, what else has he done? What else can he do?" he laughs, doubtful. "I know it's only the second day in the arena, but I need more from a tribute before I invest in them. Right now the Twos are impressing me a lot more. As thus the Ones."

He has me there. "Well, uh…"

It's true. Skinner escaped the opening bloodbath and since then he's done nothing other than wander around, still searching for something. If only he would tell the audience what it is, maybe then I'd know what to say.

But, he's silent. He's got no interest in talking. Beetee claimed that it was a form of autism behind his behaviour. Better than the theories of the Capitol – they just think he's dumb.

…Hey, wait a moment…

"…Grunnix, if you want an answer then kindly look towards the TV," I gesture to the grand device.

The gamemakers have released snake mutts, lots of them. A statement from the Head Gamemaker details that new mutts will be unleashed every day, always swapped out for something better. A one of a kind mutt is due to appear on the fifth day.

Skinner beelines for the snakes that spawn nearby him. There must be at least thirty five of them, all with sharp fangs and a ferocious kiss. They shake their rattle tales, threatening any that would dare come towards them.

Skinner doesn't heed the warning.

It appears he hardly needed to. Grunnix is amazed by what he sees and even I have to rub my eyes a bit to be sure that it's all real. Skinner's massacring them! One by one the snakes are either decapitated or end up slashed in half. Skinner barely blinks as he takes them all out.

"Fifty," his first word since entering the arena. "Not all of them. More out there."

Skinner takes a deep gulp from one of his water bottles until it's empty, collects enough snake venom to refill the bottle and then he's on the move again. It all happens in under five minutes.

I turn back to Grunnix. "Feel Skinner is worth investing in?"

Grunnix simply opens his bulging wallet. "I can go as high as two hundred thousand caps."

I leave his residence with three things when all is said and done.

A massive sponsor pledge that should buy some good supplies for Skinner, if he ends up needing them at all.

Disgust at the way Grunnix looked at one of his hounds.

Tears in my eyes after witnessing a hoard of snakes pulverising the girl from Twelve.

* * *

 **THE WALLOPER**

 _[Panem Forever issue #10499. Interview with Pasture Gallows Victor of 59_ _th_ _Hunger Games, regarding day four of 69_ _th_ _Hunger Games. Interview conducted by Edalurr Aine.]_

 **Edalurr Aine:** So, four days into the Games and eleven tributes remain. One of which is your very own tribute, Skinner Alecto.

 **Pasture Gallows:** Bravo man-of-much-ego, did you work that one out all by yourself? The daughter of a shepherd thinks you should focus on the less obvious things in life, like mashed potatoes being overrated.

 **EA:** I can't claim to think they are. What I do think, however, is that your tribute has a solid chance of winning this thing. The snakes failed to put up a fight and now the living cacti and the desert dogs have similarly failed. Skinner is seriously powerful!

 **PG:** I told you so. I also told you to stop pointing out the obvious. Skinner is almost as strong as I am! Remember this fact!

 **EA:** That's up for debate. He's killed over two hundred mutts already but he only killed a single tribute. What's up with that?

 **PG:** The tribute was named Ullamire and, lest you forget, was from District Four.

 **EA:** Who? Nevermind. Why does Skinner only have one kill?

 **PG:** Ed boy! Are you blind? Do you live with your head deeper down than the depths of the soil? Ullamire died because she got between Skinner and the dog mutt he'd been trying to kill!

 **EA:** _Who_? Well, anyway, feel like Skinner could win the Games?

 **PG:** He'll win them and win them in style! He'll bring home much honour for our district as well as the lives of at least seven hundred mutts!

* * *

 **THE STAMPEDER**

Dear Diary

Today was a very bad day. Not because of anything relating to Skinner. If anything he's not only surviving, he's thriving in the arena. It's insane that he's got enough energy to keep on slaughtering mutts at the rate he is. The massive rats on day five, the burrowing worms on day six and even the sand sharks today proved to be nothing for him to feel worried about. The other tributes certainly cannot say the same.

That's what made it such a horrible day. The death of the boy from Two yesterday was one thing, vile as those worms made it, but today brought about the deaths of the Ones and the boy from Eight. The girl from One was Platinum's daughter, Spinel. The sand sharks got her… they'd actually been trying to avoid her and go for the girl from two, but one shove changed that. Now Platinum's in hospital after an overdose and Augustus is having a massive drawn out fit over the whole thing. I can't blame him, I can't blame any of them. Platinum will live, thank the stars, but it was a close thing.

The boy from Eight had it worse. He survived a horrible bite from the sharks before they got called off. He lay in agony for hours, slowly bleeding onto the sand. The whole area around him had turned red. The worst part? He was one of the orphans who had grown up with Cecelia. Poor Button. He begged Skinner to kill him when they crossed paths. At least Skinner had the good grace to make it quick.

Win or lose I'm still going to be sleeping terribly for weeks after the Games end. How much longer is this going to go on for? Gwenith says she thinks we might have something ready to go by the eightieth Games, maybe sooner if we had a symbol of rebellion. I hope she's right as I can't wait much longer. Hay's death was pointless and cruel. I don't have it in me to see many more kids die like she did.

I hope tomorrow will be kinder. But with The Beast having been put into the arena a few days ago, I sure as hell doubt it will be.

Stallion 'The Stampeder' March

* * *

 **THE HUNTER**

By the time the sand sharks had been called off only one of the careers was left alive amongst a total of eight tributes. The gamers resorted to unleashing mostly harmless mole mutts, wanting to ensure things could keep playing out for at least a few more days.

Skinner seemed almost bored with the mutts, not that it stopped him from killing them regardless. He had a much bigger priority than wasting too much time on them. He was gradually tracking down the ultimate prize that a mutt hunter could ever imagine.

The Beast.

Bioengineered by Iris, The Beast was perhaps the hands down most powerful mutt in the history of Panem. It was made out of fused DNA of a human, a crocodile, a mosquito, a hyena and a lizard. It stood at ten meters high and knew of nothing but pure hatred for everything around it. It was freakish, it was horrifying, it was advertised as invincible…

…And Skinner wanted to kill it.

The boy worked hard to track it down, moving around the arena in an erratic zigzag and doing his best to follow distant roars and cries of despair. Bit by bit he was closing the gap towards the monster.

The audience thought he was mad.

The victors from Ten also thought he was mad. But, mad or not, he'd made it this far without any sense of caution, fear or even a tiny bit of hesitance. Was it really so unlikely that he might find a way to kill The Beast?

Skinner spent the night in a dark cave, hot on the trail of The Beast. It was a much better place to sleep than out in the open at the base of a dune, a reality found out by the boy from Six when he awoke to see The Beast glaring down at him.

* * *

 **THE TRAPPER**

It should be a pleasant sort of night. Tucked up in a warm bed with the most important person in Panem, at least to me, embracing me. It's been the way of things since the Forty Eighth Games – deal with the pain of losing tributes, cope with having to desperately haggle with sponsors, keep our rebel connections open…

…Share a night of passion and love.

It was nice. It was good. But even now my mind is stuck on loop over the state Cecelia was in mere hours ago. Button's death messed her up something awful. I tried to comfort her, say something – _anything_ – that would help.

In a word, I failed. I can't forget what she said to me before she was gone, _'I can't save anybody! I can't save a single tribute, whether I just met them or practically raised them! They'll take my kids too, you just watch_!'

When I say gone I refer of course to the fact Cecelia got arrested. She isn't dead or anything quite so extreme. Still, she did lose control of her urges and almost set fire to part of the nearest park. That won't come without punishment. It's not a huge leap to assume the tributes from Eight next year will suffer for it.

I softly sigh. One day, one day, Panem might become a nicer place. A place without fear of reapings and death when one has barely begun to live. I believe humanity can get there… eventually. But not yet… not yet.

"Feeling alright?" Spool asks.

I turn myself over to face him. He's just as lovely now as he was when we first started going out. If the Games bought me just one good thing, it's him. Would we have ever become what we are without them? It's a thought I don't feel comfortable dwelling on for long.

"Not really. Well, kind of? You certainly know how to make me feel better," I lightly peck him on the nose. "It's just… it's the same thing every year. Forced back here, mentor two new kids, watch them die almost all the time. I just want it to end."

Spool pull the bedsheets over us. It's cosy, but more importantly it's private. No way for us to be overheard.

"It will one day. I think we can win," he speaks with a confidence I wish I had. "It's all about finding chinks in the Capitol's armour. I managed to."

"That'll make a great propo when the truth finally comes out," I quip. I snuggle into his embrace. "I'm still amazed you pulled that off, you know that? You tricked them like it was nothing. Like it was all second nature for you."

"What can I say? I'm got more charisma than a con man," he playfully winks. "I meant what I said. The more we can gradually wear them down and outsmart them, the easier it'll be to win when war breaks out."

"That's the part I'm worried about," I close my eyes. "What if one of us dies in the war?"

"…Then the other will have to live on, and live the best life possible. It's what I'd want you to do," the way he looks at me… it has my heart all of a flutter. "That won't be for a while yet. We still have tomorrow to think about. And the day after that, and the day after that, and… well, you get the idea."

"Yeah, I do," I can't hold back a small laugh. "Maybe this year Ten might win. I'm sorry about your tributes, you know that, don't you?"

"Of course. If Eight can't win, I always hope that Ten will. I think Skinner could pull it off," he makes a face. "You know, if he stops trying to hunt down The Beast. That just makes no sense."

"Well, some tributes do some crazy things. You let Midas live after your duel, even though it served you absolutely zero benefit and risked a revenge attack later on. All it did was heighten the drama," in spite of everything I give him a cheeky look. "You're a true drama queen Spool."

I'm still laughing when the pillow is sent at me. Even in this dystopia of ours there are some things that keep us moving on no matter what. Love is one of those things.

Too bad the mood is spoiled by the live announcement outside that just six tributes remain.

* * *

 **THE WALLOPER**

 _[Panem Forever issue #10505. Interview with Pasture Gallows Victor of 59_ _th_ _Hunger Games, regarding the feast of the 69_ _th_ _Hunger Games. Interview conducted by Camross Looper.]_

 **Camross Looper:** Pasture, we simply have to talk. What did you think of the feast? The world wants to know!

 **Pasture Gallows:** It was really good man of much pink hair and little in the upstairs. I don't know how the Capitol makes such a fine lamb shank, but I'm glad that you do!

 **CL:** I mean the Feast in the Games.

 **PG:** The name is really misleading. I mean, the gamemakers… how can they-who-scheme call it a feast and not have any masses of meat on offer?! It's a scandal, it's completely against everything the Gallows clan believes in! I mean, you tell me what was at that feast. Tell me Mister Man!

 **CL:** Water and grapes?

 **PG:** Do either of those things sound like meat to you?

 **CL:** Well… no.

 **PG:** Exactly. Worst feast ever! I ought to beat whoever approved it with a shoe!

 **CL:** Moving on from that, any thoughts on the Sevens being eliminated or that Skinner lacked the nerve to attend the feast? He's over four miles from the nearest tribute as we speak.

 **PG:** Are you doubting Skinner's nerve? He is hunting down The Beast, you fool! If you dare say that again you'll experience the almighty three shoe beating!

* * *

 **THE STAMPEDER**

Dear Diary

I have no idea how it happened. It should have been impossible. He should have been torn to bloody pieces… but he wasn't. Three cannons fired over the past two days and not one of them was for Skinner. He won!

It was easily one of the craziest finales the Games have ever seen, I tell you what. After the girl from Two died to the second round of sand sharks and the boy from Three died of thirst it was just Skinner and the girl from Eleven left. That girl was tall, brave and well equipped. I feared the worst.

They didn't even end up fighting. At least, not really. I'm not sure what I can even call this finale to be perfectly honest? Skinner finally caught up with The Beast when the girl was a mile away. They tried herding her over real soon after that, but all the while Skinner wasn't just fighting The Beast… he was surviving. He was winning! Turns out the thick pelt he'd made from some of the mutts he killed and the snake poison soaked onto his weapons was exactly the stuff required to take on the Beast in a fair fight.

Skinner's truly as fine a mutt hunter as there ever will be. The Beast never managed to land a single hit on him. By the time the girl from Eleven showed up it was covered in horrible gashes and was starting to die. Skinner ignored his opponent entirely. It was like she wasn't even there. He only had eyes for that monster.

Skinner didn't even kill her. The Beast ended up accidently stepping on the poor girl. Skinner ignored the trumpets and kept going at The Beast, even when Claudius kept telling him he'd won and that the Games were over. They weren't happy, but the audience loved it. Skinner's got something of a big fanbase now. They think he's a legend – he killed a grand total of two thousand, four hundred and sixty seven mutts overall. The Beast didn't die, barely, but it'll be years before they get that monster in any sort of presentable state again.

As I write this it's about an hour until Skinner's victor interview. I'm not wholly sure what to expect from this one. After all, he's still not much for talking. He was all sorts of awkward when we were able to see him after the Games. Just a quiet hello and a mumble for us to not come so close. I guess we'll just see what happens and roll with it. He might be a socially awkward mutt murdering hermit… but I tell you what, he's our socially awkward mutt murdering hermit! Yee-haw!

Feeling happy and hoping for back-to-back victors.

Stallion March

* * *

 **THE HUNTER**

Skinner went home victorious and, while technically living in the victory village 'officially', went right back to living as he always had done. As a hermit and a legendary mutt hunter. There were still plenty of them crawling around Ten that needed to be disposed of. The Capitol tried to stop him and, when that failed, tried to keep tabs on him to ensure he'd not end up getting himself killed or, worse yet, outright vanishing.

They needn't have worried. It became clear that all the oddball really cared for was making ten safe and taking down mutts. They left him to it, occasionally putting in requests for him to make specific types of knick knacks out of mutt bones. Skinner obliged, if only because he had nothing else to do with his hunting trophies.

Skinner spent little time out of the arena. Not long after his own victory a pair of tributes from Twelve were able to outsmart the gamemakers and force a joint victory. Fire was catching and unrest and thoughts of rebellion filled the nation.

Enough for Snow to have the quell changed from whatever it was to be originally (and _that_ in itself is another story…) in order to have Katniss Everdeen, and Peeta Mellark if at all possible, killed in the Games.

Ten only had two candidates for a male tribute. It was either Stallion or Skinner and neither would volunteer.

A mere minute after Lammy was spared and Pasture fearlessly mounted the stage the reaping slip was plucked out of the bowl.

"Skinner Alecto!"

The odds weren't in his favour, though just as with the first time Skinner barely emoted nor showed any fear. It was like it was business as usual for him.

He was quiet in training, merely looking over survival stations with a light curiosity. He was similarly quiet in interview, never being much of a talker. He was a man of action and the audience knew he'd only come to life in the arena.

He did.

After escaping the bloodbath without a scratch and with a machete, a knife and a screaming woman from Two behind him Skinner vanished into the jungle.

He figured out the fact water was in the trees barely an hour in. He saw Arendellian and Chaff going by a different points in time, not bothering to engage with either of them. Humans were never his game.

Mutts were.

During the second day, deep in the jungle within the six to seven clock sector, Skinner met his end. Katniss has assumed later that the so called beast had torn him to pieces in a very one sided fight.

She was wrong.

Skinner had been calmly walking along, not saying much of anything. He showed no fear, or much of anything. Even the fact he was near certain he would not win the Games did not phase him.

The time sector activated and hidden vents began to billow out thin clouds of air. Air that smelled of fresh, blood soaked meat.

Skinner had his machete in one hand and his knife in the other before The Beast had shown itself from the shadows. It still sported many scars from the previous battle they'd had, its face by now nothing short of grotesque.

Skinner just observed it curiously. He greeted it like it for an old friend.

"Haven't seen you in a while. How have you been?" Skinner asked, softly chuckling. "Had a face lift? Had any mutt pups?"

The Beast growled. Only the gamemakers were keeping it held back.

"I always knew I wasn't long for Panem. People like me? We don't live long, but we live a lot in the time we have," Skinner idly twirled his knife around between his fingers. "If this is how it has to end… if this is the final hunt I'll be taking part in… I can't think of a better conclusion to it all, old friend."

Skinner stood his ground, getting into a fighting position. The Beast's snarling began to get louder.

"I'm ready whenever you are," Skinner said, readying himself to dodge the first attack.

The Beast responded with a ferocious, terrifying roar and swung at Skinner with its claws. He easily dodged the first blow and responded by slashing a small cut into the paw of The Beast.

The fight was long and far beyond merely being savage. Skinner lacked the open space, armour and array of weapons he'd had during the first fight against this monster. Therefore it was sadly inevitable that he would be mortally wounded by The Beast.

But that didn't mean he could not win the fight.

In the end, bloodied and horrifically beaten, Skinner made one final move. He threw with the machete with all the strength he had left. It pieced deeply into the eye of The Beast, killing it after a mere moment. It let out a dying whimper as it staggered, soon to collapse.

Skinner knew he was as good as dead, but at least he'd managed to pull off the ultimate hunt. He'd killed the mutt that had been claimed unkillable. Nothing could take the victory away from him.

Not even The Beast when it fell towards him, its claws striking him by fluke as it fell.

Katniss had been right that the body, torn into multiple pieces, was hard to recognise and had truly been left in a horrible state.

But it wasn't the body of a true loser, either.

It was the remains of the greatest mutt hunter who would ever live.

* * *

Katniss and Peeta gave one last lingering look of pity towards Skinner's engraved face and resumed walking down the street.

It wasn't long at all until they came to the seventieth face, looks of pity filling up their eyes as they look at the imprinted face. The pictured young women had eyes wide with terror, like she were a moment away from a meltdown. Her hair flowed past her shoulders, almost ocean-like, and her lips were twisted into a whimper.

"Poor Annie," Peeta said, a sad look adoring his face. "She went through so much… think she'll be alright one day?"

"I hope she will be," Katniss said. She gently took hold of Peeta's hand. "Hopefully all of us will be… one day."

* * *

Hope you all liked this tale of the oddball mutt hunter. It's always fun to give life to the CF victors who canon never really gave any spotlight. It was a challenge, but one I was happy to take on. So there we go, Skinner defeated The Beast twice and being torn to pieces didn't quite happen in the way Katniss may have thought. Overall I like how oddball and off in his own world Skinner came off, and especially the format here. Nice to catch up on the other D10 victors and some of those from other districts, yeah? We're almost at the end of the decade guys, but before that can be achieved we still gotta get through Annie. Stay tuned!

* * *

 **Stats**

 **District 1:** Peridot Gaudy (8th Games), Crystal McCree (14th Games), Bronze Marley (19th Games), Crown Martins (24th Games), Dollar Dettwieller (32nd Games), Mascara Court (41st Games), Platinum Twist (44th Games), Gloss Lord (63rd Games), Cashmere Lord (64th Games), Augustus Braun (67th Games)

 **District 2:** Baron Overwhill (4th Games), Runa Peace (7th Games), Olga Machete (10th Games), Rook Valiant (17th Games), Boulder Atherston (20th Games), Vercingetorix Carnby (25th Games), Dragon Batofel (27th Games), Rhyder Overwhill (39th Games), Mercy Gregor (46th Games), Brutus Gunn (49th Games), Lyme Rabe (51st Games), Enobaria Golding (62nd Games)

 **District 3:** Honorius Perthshire (5th Games), Pi Orbit (22nd Games), Beetee Latier (37th Games), Wiress Plummer (47th Games), Yohan Fairbane (58th Games)

 **District 4:** Museida Selkirk (3rd Games), Mags Flanagan (11th Games), Tide Luther (23rd Games), Librae Ogilvy (35th Games), Anchor Paddock (52nd Games), Finnick Odair (65th Games), Ron Stafford (68th Games)

 **District 5:** Shunt Gaspar (12th Games), Isobel Sparks (18th Games), Crimson Flanders (29th Games), Porter Tripp (38th Games), Neon Erg (48th Games), Wattzon Holmes (55th Games), Arendellian Spinner III (57th Games)

 **District 6:** Chassis Macalister (31st Games), Bentley Corduroy (54th Games), Porsche London (56th Games)

 **District 7:** Pliny Aransio (2nd Games), Fir Buzz (9th Games), Jack Tylos (21st Games), Snag Nakamura (34th Games), Blight Jordan (53rd Games), Logger Barlow (61st Games)

 **District 8:** Woof Casino (16th Games), Paige Murphy (30th Games), Spool Nylon (42nd Games), Cecelia Mog (60th Games)

 **District 9:** Mizar Aldjoy (1st Games), Gwenith Rosebud (13th Games), Teff Withers (28th Games), Laurel Flamsteel (36th Games), Tabbock Summers (43rd Games), Trevy Vex (Escaped 55th Games)

 **District 10:** Stallion March (26th Games), Lammy Phyronix (40th Games), Pasture Gallows (59th Games), Skinner Alecto (69th Games)

 **District 11:** Bear Redfoot (15th Games), Seeder Howell (33rd Games), Chaff Mitchell (45th Games), Spud Munroe (66th Games)

 **District 12:** Duke Saint-Rose (6th Games), Haymitch Abernathy (50th Games)


	71. Annie Cresta

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Hunger Games. They belong to Suzanne Collins.

 **Note:** Here we are gang, the end of another decade of the Hunger Games. Indeed, the end of the last whole decade. Just a few stragglers left to go after this! But first, Annie! Finnick's one true love and the girl who went mad after her partner lost his head… literally! Say it with me now, she was a bit underused in canon. Haha, that may as well be my catchphrase at this point. I think I came up with something decent for the final victor of District Four, so what else can I say aside read on and that I hope you all enjoy the chapter?

Well, I can think of something. You know how it's been a thing stated in the story that there are ten extra survivors in addition to the canon seven? Well, obviously we can add Librae onto that as her status makes it obvious she's fine, but that leads me into a bigger thing. Librae does not exactly count in the former categories, given she's an unknown factor at the moment to the people in-universe. Simply put, the number of extra surviving victors at the party has been upped from ten to twelve. So now your favourite victor, or victors, have an extra two chances to make it out alive – nineteen have been spared overall. I believe I've edited all mentions of the original survivor number to reflect this, but if I missed one feel free to let me know. Have fun with theorising over who made it out of the rebellion alive!

N.C.s 1 Fan, glad to hear that you liked Skinner's chapter. All the praise truly means a lot to me, so thank you very much. As for if other SYOT tributes of mine will show up, my answer would be 'never say never'. All comes down to finding a good place to slot them into stories that feels natural.

* * *

"Do you think Annie would have won if it was a fair fight?" Katniss asked. "I mean, if the dam hadn't been destroyed and flooded everything?"

"I'd like to say yes, but honestly… I doubt it. The boy from One would have probably won if not for that," Peeta admitted. "For Finnick's sake, between then and when he, uh, left us… let's just be glad Annie survived."

Katniss nodded. "I can agree with that. There's little I can claim to be happy about when it comes to the rebellion, I mean aside the fact we won. But, Finnick and Annie's wedding was one of the few things."

"Same here," Peeta agreed. "I mean, I was still recovering, I couldn't exactly attend but… you know what I mean."

Katniss gently held Peeta's hand. "I do."

The pair went silent, thinking about the girl who survived the flood. One of a scant few they knew to have survived everything thrown in her way, in the Games and out.

* * *

 **70** **th** **Annual Hunger Games**

 **Name:** Annie Cresta

 **Gender:** Female

 **District:** 4

 **Age:** 18

 **Kills:** 2

* * *

In District Four information is important, perhaps even moreso than most other districts. It's vital to know the weather to ensure the ships are properly prepared. Local events are always needed to be on people's minds so that fishing schedules can be worked out properly. And who wouldn't want a seashell postcard from their Grandma that doesn't really say much of anything?

You would, obviously, need a fine postal worker to get the post to where it needs to go and within the borders of Four there was no finer mail girl than Annie Cresta. Rain, sleet, snow or hail – or, more typically, bland sunshine – she would make sure each and every letter ended up delivered right on time.

Especially to victor village. After all, that was where Finnick lived.

Annie had been delivering his mail for the past four years and had no intent of stopping now. Not when they were really forming a connection. Plenty of hi's, hello's and how are you's had been exchanged. One time Finnick even asked her for the time!

Naturally Annie had grown a big fat crush on Finnick. How could she not? He was the sweetest guy she knew. He even tolerated her clumsiness. It wasn't once or twice that she's tripped over into water or a hedge and messed up at least a few of his letters.

He thought it was charming.

It was a fine morning just a week shy of the reaping for what was to be the Seventieth Hunger Games and Annie was delivering mail as always. The headline plastered across the front of the newspaper of the day was unmissable. Making it bold, all caps and written in comic sans would have that sort of an effect.

' **DISTRICT FOUR IN MOURNING! MUSEIDA SELKIRK PASSES AWAY! HOME DEEMED 'MESSY, BUT HABITABLE TO SOME DEGREE'!'**

Annie had handed out the rest of her mail and, per the norm and her own planning, reached Finnick's house last. After a moment spent adjusting her hair and trying to quell the blushing in her cheeks she rapped her fingers on the door.

"Special delivery!"

It moments the door opened, Finnick revealed in all his bathrobe clad glory. It was enough to have Annie momentarily unable to speak. Such things like knowing how to form words had simply been banished from her brain.

"So, you said you have something for me?" Finnick said a few moments later, a cheeky smirk upon his face. "A special delivery?"

"Oh, right!" Annie blushed, almost dropping the post from her hands. She managed to grab hold of it after a few moments of fumbling. "Here you go!"

Finnick thanks Annie as he took hold of his post. He flipped through them, briefly frowning at the headline telling of his fellow victor's death, muttering about how the now empty 'hadn't been that messy'. He soon turned his gaze back to Annie.

"You know, for a special delivery my mail seems rather ordinary," Finnick teased.

Annie tried to act subtle. It wasn't as if she was blatantly obvious about her crush. It certainly wasn't as if Finnick was well aware she liked him and enjoyed playfully teasing her over it every now and then.

"Uh, well… no?" Annie knew she was smooth. Oh yes indeed. "Any mail delivered to you is special."

"Oh, is it now?" Finnick's grin only seemed to get wider. "Why might that be?"

"Oh, um… ummmm.. ummmmmm! Oh, because you're a victor, of course!" Annie stammered with full blatancy. In her own mind she was subtle like a ninja or something. "Victor male is always special because, ummm, victors are special people. Very special!"

"Sounds like a perfectly believable excuse," Finnick said, playing along. "So, what do you think of the weather today?"

"It's good!" Annie yelled, standing rigidly.

All too soon Finnick had to head back inside – the food he'd had on the go was burning – but in that time he and Annie had discussed far more then the weather. They'd actually gotten around to discussing Finnick's stylish bathrobe _and_ the newest episode of Fiona and Lawrence!

Annie was practically skipping along as she exited the village, the sound of a loudly beeping fire alarm behind her. This was the closest that she and Finnick had ever been!

"This is the greatest day of my life!" Annie exclaimed, stars practically glimmering within her eyes.

Annie was so caught up in her bubbly glee that she ended up tripping over her own feet and, after going head over heels, landed within a thick bush.

"I'm okay!" she slurred out.

* * *

Alas, what goes up must eventually go down again and this included Annie's spirits.

"Annie Cresta!"

Annie had a grand total of eleven entries into the reaping bowl and it only took one of them to condemn her. Those that had once been planning to volunteer were the quietest of all in the reaping square. None had any plans to draws attention to themselves.

Not after what fate Algae had met two years ago. Any hopes of more District Four careers had fully died alongside her.

Annie was soon unceremoniously taken into the judgement building alongside a boy she knew from school, Swell, and all too soon after that was forced onto the tribute train. Her fate awaited only a few hundred miles away.

But… what goes down can often be sent right back up again, especially with the right sort of motivation. It just so happened that Annie had the perfect sort of motivation, one even better than fried fish.

Finnick was going to be her mentor!

So excited was Annie that it was an hour of squealing, babbling and moe-esque actions before Finnick was able to properly sit her down and start to discuss mentoring with her. By that point Swell and his chosen mentor, Mags, were already talking about strategies Swell could use and what he could focus on in training.

He had plenty of options for what to do. After all, he'd been one of the youths in Four who had been training for the Games, albeit as a precaution and not out of any actual desire to enter the arena willingly.

Annie, in comparison, had no particularly obvious route to take in the pre-Games events. Or so Finnick had thought. Annie was quick to assure him that she had done a bit of training of her own in her free time.

"You have?" Finnick's curiosity was truly peaked. "What sort? Tridents, knife fighting, swordplay?"

"Nope. Hand to hand combat," Annie's perky smile only widened when she saw that Finnick appeared to be impressed.

"What sort of combat? Do you mean something like Kung Fu?" Finnick paused, a thought occurring to him. He looked even more eager. "Karate?"

"Nope, better!" Annie stood tall, on her tip toes for good measure, and proudly put her hands to her hips. "Water Fu!"

Finnick's smile slowly vanished, replaced only by confusion. Swell and Mags looked over at the pair, Annie having been too loud for them to be able to ignore while they spoke.

"…Water Fu?" Swell asked, thoroughly stumped. "The hell is that?"

"It's like Kung Fu, but you do it in the water," Annie explained. "The people who ordered the training tape ended up vanishing by the time I got there to deliver it, sooooooo… finders keepers after I paid my boss forty caps? It works, really! Imagine there's water around me and _**boom shakalaka**_!"

Annie awkwardly threw a few punches, kicks and finished with a harsh spin. She knocked over a vase that no doubt cost somewhere between three hundred thousand and four hundred thousand caps.

An awkward silence hung about the train carriage for several painful moments after that.

Swell burst out laughing, unable to hide his sheer bewildered amusement over what had unfolded. He doubled over, applauding the idiocy he'd been witness to.

"Oh man, that was good. Holy shit Annie, you… you really got ripped off," Swell wiped away a tear of mirth. "You make me laugh and I'm gonna need laughter in the arena. Fuck it, let's get trained together. I'm fine with making this a team effort between us."

"Aw yeah!" Annie exclaimed, punching the air in joy.

She accidently hit a tall lamp. While Annie held her throbbing hand the lamp fell over and knocked over a second highly valuable vase.

"…Eh, still not as crazy as the year Anchor won," Mags remarked, not looking remotely phased.

Finnick meanwhile looked as though he'd walked into an asylum for the insane… and was more than alright with that. He'd do everything in his power to make sure the cute, goofy postal girl made it home safe and sound.

As it happened, Finnick considered himself to be a powerful mentor.

* * *

The parade had gone off without a hitch. The watery merman and mermaid costumes worn by Swell and Annie would have ensured they'd have, ahem, made a splash regardless of how they acted to the audience. However, the fact both had gone the extra mile had unquestionably put them at the top of the totem after the opening ceremony, barely beating out District One and their chocolate tuxedos.

The fact the Fours had been willing to work together, no strings attached until the final two, had given them a boon the other tributes lacked. Even the Ones and Twos maintained a sense of cool professionalism with each other. Swell gripped the chariot's handlebars with one hand and waved with the other. Meanwhile Annie balanced on his shoulders and waved with both hands to the crowd. The spoiled audience loved it, thinking the novelty of one person sitting on the shoulders of another was a marvel they'd never even imagined before. They flocked to try and mimic it then and there.

Over half of the audience ended up falling over. Even President Snow couldn't help face palming over this. He had little patience when it came to the common Capitol citizen, it had to be said.

He facepalmed again when Annie fell off the chariot right at the end, taking Swell with her. He was starting to miss the occasional appearance of careers in Four. Alas, nothing good lasted forever in his view.

The clumsiness only continued during training.

Swell took to training like most birds took to the air. He excelled with tridents, swimming and several other things. He looked to be having a good time all in all. The careers offered him a spot in their alliance, though their refusal to allow Annie in resulted in Swell turning them down as well. Partly as he liked Annie and partly as he did not wish to be the odd man out. The pack were pissed, but at least the boy from Two got his point. The rest were merely pissed off, nothing more.

Annie, however… she had all the enthusiasm but didn't exactly have what one could call the pure skill and drive of a normal tribute. She was what she was, and what she was happened to be Annie.

Annie's attempts at knife fighting ended up knocking over ten dummies. It was double that when she tried sword training. Running ended up knocking over so many weapon racks that training had to be briefly halted while the Avoxes set everything back up again. And, in the most puzzling of situations, listening to a dreary woman at the edible plants training station somehow ended up with a few ceiling lights becoming dislodged and crashing to the ground.

Annie scored an eight.

"How did you manage that?" Swell asked, scratching his head. He'd barely scraped a nine even with his training. "All you did in training was act clumsy, knock stuff over and say 'oopsie' thirty times or so."

"Water Fu," Annie said, winking mysteriously.

In truth Annie had no idea how she had pulled it off, but nothing said she had to tell anybody that. Besides, she was too cheerful and more than a bit giggly over how impressed Finnick was to consider things like 'how the actual hell' and 'what the fuck'.

* * *

"That was some interview," Finnick said to Annie that night, the pair sitting on the roof of the tribute building.

"Oh, it was nothing really," Annie said, blushing from all of the praise.

Finnick would be inclined to disagree. In her few minutes on stage with Caesar Flickerman Annie had managed to tell two funny anecdotes about her postal work, beat Caesar in an arm wrestle (not that this was saying much), beat a newly recruited peacekeeper in an arm wrestle (this said a lot more) and concluded by accidently admitting that she like-liked Finnick. The crowd had been chanting her name over and over again as she left the stage.

"So, like-liking me is 'nothing'?" Finnick teased. He put a hand over his heart in mock-horror. "I'm hurt! I am _very_ much hurt!"

"Oh no!" Annie went wide eyed. "I wouldn't want to hurt you, that's one of my top ten things I least want to happen! Right between dying and getting fired!"

Finnick laughed. "So, second on the list?"

"Nope, sixth," Annie declared.

Finnick was momentarily stumped, not just by the fact dying was not on top of the list but for the fact it was somehow either fifth or potentially as low as seventh.

He soon decided he didn't care about Annie's somewhat skewed priorities. He cared moreso about Annie herself and the fact she was going to be in a lot of danger starting from the following day.

From casual interaction to Finnick finding himself entranced by her. She'd truly snuck up on him.

"Finnick?" Annie whispered.

"Yeah?" Finnick replied.

Annie have Finnick a timid sort of look. "If something happens to me… something worse than being clumsy and then being all 'oopsie' about it. Like… being killed? Don't forget about me, alright?" Annie took a deep breath. "Don't forget the week we've known each other. I've… really enjoyed it.

To Annie's shock Finnick gently pulled her in for a soft, caring hug.

"We've known each other for longer than a week Annie. You've been delivering my mail for three years now. How could I forget all of the small talk we shared?" Finnick let himself become more serious. "How could I forget how the little bits and pieces helped me get to know you even before this week began?"

Finnick hugged her tighter, slightly desperate. "Be safe. Annie, I believe you can do this. I believe… but you need to be careful. Watch where you step, clumsiness could land you in serious danger."

Annie finally found the nerve to return the hug.

"Don't you worry Finnick. I'll be the most un-clumsy girl you've ever seen," Annie stood up, almost falling over the side of the building in the process. "Just you watch."

Annie hesitated for a moment before quickly giving Finnick a light peck on the cheek. With pink cheeks she quickly scampered away to the elevator and down to her district's floor of the tribute building, stammering and squeaking the whole way.

Finnick put a hand to his cheek, stunned.

"Whoa," Finnick whispered. "What a girl…"

His eyes narrowed in sheer determination.

"She's winning. No matter what happens or what I have to do," Finnick vowed, balling his fist.

As he would prove when out gathering sponsor funds, he meant every word.

* * *

The arena of the Seventieth Hunger Games was a vast wetland that stretched on for miles and miles, the terrain occasionally joined by large hills and plateaus mostly made out of moss covered rock. The scent of dirty water was impossible for the tributes to ignore.

Annie ended up almost falling off of her pedestal while trying to get herself warmed up and ready for the Games. Only the fact the gong rang an instant later saved her from ending up like the girl from Eleven a few years prior.

Annie and Swell met up quickly and ran side by side to the cornucopia. It didn't take long for them to grab some of the best supplies and get themselves armed with a scimitar and a trident respectively.

However, Annie took a bit too long to grab the weapon she wanted. Further time was wasted when she tripped over twice, resulting in the Twos being able to trap her inside the cornucopia.

"Nowhere to run, Four," the girl from Two beared her teeth viciously.

"I won't run, I'll fight! Eat Water Fu!" Annie yelled, leaping upon a crate and striking a battle pose.

Annie was clumsy, this much was known to everybody from the start.

Nobody had known just how vast the reach of her clumsiness was until she attempted Water Fu outside the water within the cornucopia. One moment she was just awkwardly punching the air to the bemusement of the careers.

The next moment the cornucopia, having been built upon squishy and wet mud that left it slightly unstable, – mainly for effect – had started to tip over.

The end result was the Twos fleeing the area, Annie running to where Swell watched just outside of the clearing and the cornucopia being stuck upon its side for the rest of the arenas existence. All the supplies within had been wrecked around and turned into one huge mess.

Annie and Swell fled the areas with the shouts of the careers and ten cannons behind them. The shouts of the boy from One, adamantly refusing to clear up the mess, were the loudest sound of all.

Alas, he and the other three careers had no choice but to do so. It gave the outliers all the more time to start gaining distance over them.

Certainly a good thing due to Annie's habit of tripping and Swell's howls of laughter making him stumble every so often.

* * *

In spite of the outliers getting a longer than average head start over the careers the early days ended up passing by quickly. The headcount had dropped from fourteen down to just nine by the end of the fourth day, owing to a combination of the careers being an effective team and several outliers having gotten themselves stuck in the muddy patches of the wetlands.

It was going too quickly for the liking of the gamemakers. They spawned a tornado into the arena to stir up some chaos and force the tributes into hiding for a day or two. Enough to at least prevent further deaths and get them talking. The audience tended to like it when they discussed stuff, whether it were important or utterly irrelevant and dumb.

Annie and Swell hid themselves within a cave, trying to stay warm as the tornado kept on causing plenty of chaos outside.

It wasn't long before Annie got bored and the pair begun to ask each other random questions to pass the time.

"Favourite colour?" Annie asked.

"Yellow. Favourite plotline in Fiona and Lawrence?" Swell asked.

"The time Lawrence was kidnapped by the guitar mutt who played guitar," Annie replied. "Hmmm… favourite fish?"

"Herring," Swell considered his next question. "Most handsome thing about Finnick? Come on, true answers only."

Swell smirked upon seeing just how flustered Annie looked. Indeed, her cheeks had been flushed entirely pink.

"Um… uh… well… if I had to be specific then I'd say… his everything?" Annie covered her face, her pink cheeks turning red. "Shut uuuuuuup!"

Swell could barely speak between his fits of laughter. "You're smitten alright."

Annie couldn't deny it. Finnick was simply everything she wanted when it came to boys.

From his seat in the mentor room Finnick couldn't help but feel like Annie was everything he wanted when it came to girls.

* * *

The tornado ended up going on for two more days, during which time it went from simply keeping the tributes from killing each other too quickly to becoming a dangerous hazard that was hard to avoid. It was only removed from the arena when it had killed two tributes.

In this case, the girl from One and the Boy from Two had been swept away by the wind and, after being thrown over a mile through the air, had smashed into one of the rocky hills.

That had been the end of their trials and existences, but for Annie her greatest trial arrived when the tenth day of the Games came by.

She and Swell had been walking through the depths of the wetlands when, from out of the overgrowth, came the remaining two careers.

Annie tried her best to duel the girl from Two, but in the end was mainly forced to run around and try to tire the girl out. The spiked mace she held wasn't suited for throwing after all. Annie eventually managed to bring the girl down, breaking her arm in the process.

Too bad that was when the boy from One gained the upper hand in his duel against Swell and slashed his sword through the air.

Something changed in Annie when she saw Swell's head leave his shoulders. Something changed even moreso when the head fell onto her lap, a fountain of blood staining her clothes.

Between the blood, the screaming of the girl from Two and the triumphant laughter of the boy from One it was only a few seconds before Annie snapped.

" _ **AAAAYYEEEEIIIIIIIIIIII**_!"

Annie turned tale and ran away deeper into the wetlands, screaming like a maniac as she went. She was so filled with adrenaline that the careers simply couldn't hope to catch up with her. All too soon Annie had vanished through a large overgrowth and barely a few moments was out of hearing range as well.

The boy from One just shrugged. "No big deal, not like she'll be a problem anymore. South next, you reckon?"

"Fuck no," the girl from Two spat, clutching her broken arm with her other. "Medical aid first, _then_ we head south."

* * *

Annie was never quite right after that. Two days passed by at a horribly slow speed. Annie would stare at the wall of the small cave she had hidden inside, sometimes mumbling and other times laughing like a maniac. In an instant she would either go eerily silent, jerk her head around and babble or sometimes just say Swell and Finnick's names over and over again.

The cute clumsy girl was clearly not the same person any longer. Just an empty shell remained. A broken husk of sorts.

A scared child.

Annie barely seemed aware of what was going on anymore. All she knew was that she was terrified and wanted to go home. Thoughts of home, naturally, only bought on more sobbing.

Annie hadn't even reacted when a cannon had fired earlier in the day. The career pair had finally tracked down the skinny boy from Twelve and butchered him like a pig.

All Annie did as the day went by was adjust her position so that she was rocking back and forth. The classic troubled fetal position.

That and put on a loose suit of padded armour and a set of floaties that came with a sponsor parachute. She didn't know it, but Finnick had gotten the word from a pair of gamemaker twins he'd seduced that the arena was to be flooded soon.

Somebody, however, flooded the arena far quicker and more severely than the gamemakers had been planning to.

As day turning to evening a gigantic explosion echoed from somewhere else in the arena, a cannon firing a moment later. Annie had no idea what it was – she, after all, had no way to have seen the boy from Three blow himself and a massive dam up as a middle finger to the Capitol – but the noise had Annie fleeing her cave and screaming herself hoarse.

The water covered the already soaked wetlands like a tidal wave. By the time it had caught up to Annie another cannon had fired, the boy from One having been smashed into some rocks.

The final hour of the Games seemed like an endless nightmare. The boy from Six drowned fifteen minutes into it, but the other two tributes stayed afloat long enough to reach Annie one at a time and make a final attempt to hold her under the water. Perhaps they were just desperate. Perhaps they thought they could use her body as something to stay afloat with?

The girl from Two was wrong and ten minutes later so was the girl from Seven. In a fit of panic and self-defence Annie had been able to hold them both under the water until the cannons boomed.

The trumpets sounded right after that and just in time too. Annie passed out from sheer exhaustion and fear midway through them. The hovercraft, luckily, managed to collect her before she sank under the water.

When Annie awoke three days later Finnick was sitting there, ready to welcome her back and be the pillar of support she needed.

Annie wept, holding him close. She'd never been more relieved to have seen somebody in her entire short life.

It was sure to be a long road to recovery, a road many were unsure Annie would ever reach the end of. Victor trauma was quite a tricky thing to predict.

* * *

Years passed and trauma endured.

Years passed and a quell began.

Years passed and terror gripped the nation.

Years passed and, within District Thirteen, Finnick and Annie got married.

The pair danced together, slowly and gently, on the dance floor as people around them celebrated and looked on. It had been just the morale booster that the rebellion had needed.

Just the morale booster both Finnick and Annie had needed.

"I love you," Annie whispered, quietly. "You know that?"

"If I didn't before I certainly do now," Finnick replied. He playfully smirked. "Though, the thousands of times you've said that before now did give me a vague hint that you were at least a little fond of me."

Annie laughed, her first genuine and fear free laugh in so very long.

"You're one of a kind Finnick," Annie whispered. "Never leave me."

"I don't plan to," Finnick assured her, holding Annie close.

* * *

Katniss and Peeta began to move further down the street. Barely any faces remained to be passed and The Golden Goose was no more than thirty meters away, if that.

The pair soon came across the next face on the ground. A woman with a vengeful, aggression sort of expression looked back at them. Her eyes were fiery, and her lips were twisted into a sneer that reeked of power. Her hair was relatively short, barely going past her shoulders.

"Who else but Johanna," Peeta remarked. "You know, looking at her here and thinking of what we know now, having met her… how did people not realise she was, well, herself until it was far too late?"

"I guess it's just the simple fact she was a great actor," Katniss said, thinking back to Johanna's Games only a few years prior. "Nobody in Twelve suspected a thing."

* * *

So, how was that one guys? I think it's fair to say Annie is particularly different indeed before she 'went mad', but you know what they say - trauma changes people and it's never for the better, eep! I'll admit a fondness for the 'cute clumsy girl' archetype and it was fun to try and work that into a series as macabre as The Hunger Games. Do you feel it worked out? Did Annie live up to expectations, and perhaps surpass them? Let me know, I listen to and take on all feedback. ^_^ The next victor, we all know her and frankly Johanna needs little introduction. Just wait and see what her format is. I would say 'LMFAO' is the word for it! Stay tuned!

* * *

 **Stats**

 **District 1:** Peridot Gaudy (8th Games), Crystal McCree (14th Games), Bronze Marley (19th Games), Crown Martins (24th Games), Dollar Dettwieller (32nd Games), Mascara Court (41st Games), Platinum Twist (44th Games), Gloss Lord (63rd Games), Cashmere Lord (64th Games), Augustus Braun (67th Games)

 **District 2:** Baron Overwhill (4th Games), Runa Peace (7th Games), Olga Machete (10th Games), Rook Valiant (17th Games), Boulder Atherston (20th Games), Vercingetorix Carnby (25th Games), Dragon Batofel (27th Games), Rhyder Overwhill (39th Games), Mercy Gregor (46th Games), Brutus Gunn (49th Games), Lyme Rabe (51st Games), Enobaria Golding (62nd Games)

 **District 3:** Honorius Perthshire (5th Games), Pi Orbit (22nd Games), Beetee Latier (37th Games), Wiress Plummer (47th Games), Yohan Fairbane (58th Games)

 **District 4:** Museida Selkirk (3rd Games), Mags Flanagan (11th Games), Tide Luther (23rd Games), Librae Ogilvy (35th Games), Anchor Paddock (52nd Games), Finnick Odair (65th Games), Ron Stafford (68th Games), Annie Cresta (70th Games)

 **District 5:** Shunt Gaspar (12th Games), Isobel Sparks (18th Games), Crimson Flanders (29th Games), Porter Tripp (38th Games), Neon Erg (48th Games), Wattzon Holmes (55th Games), Arendellian Spinner III (57th Games)

 **District 6:** Chassis Macalister (31st Games), Bentley Corduroy (54th Games), Porsche London (56th Games)

 **District 7:** Pliny Aransio (2nd Games), Fir Buzz (9th Games), Jack Tylos (21st Games), Snag Nakamura (34th Games), Blight Jordan (53rd Games), Logger Barlow (61st Games)

 **District 8:** Woof Casino (16th Games), Paige Murphy (30th Games), Spool Nylon (42nd Games), Cecelia Mog (60th Games)

 **District 9:** Mizar Aldjoy (1st Games), Gwenith Rosebud (13th Games), Teff Withers (28th Games), Laurel Flamsteel (36th Games), Tabbock Summers (43rd Games), Trevy Vex (Escaped 55th Games)

 **District 10:** Stallion March (26th Games), Lammy Phyronix (40th Games), Pasture Gallows (59th Games), Skinner Alecto (69th Games)

 **District 11:** Bear Redfoot (15th Games), Seeder Howell (33rd Games), Chaff Mitchell (45th Games), Spud Munroe (66th Games)

 **District 12:** Duke Saint-Rose (6th Games), Haymitch Abernathy (50th Games)


	72. Johanna Mason

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Hunger Games. They belong to Suzanne Collins.

 **Note:** Johanna's truly a woman who speaks for herself, little introduction needed. J think everybody knows her and her rough and tumble attitude well enough. Indeed, it was her attitude that made thinking up a format for this chapter so easy in comparison to a few of the past victors in this story. Compared to normal I don't have much to say, so without any further dawdling I give you the Johanna's tale. Enjoy!

* * *

"You know, she may have an attitude… but I'm sure as hell glad she does," Katniss said after a moment. "It's nice, imaging the trouble that she must have given the Capitol before we met her."

"True, but that attitude got her in trouble a lot. You know what happened to her family, right?" Peeta trailed slightly paced faced at the thought.

"It's horrible," Katniss agreed. "I've lost some family and the pain won't go away. All of them? No pain like it."

The pair were silent for a moment.

"Did you hear what happened when she went to visit Snow shortly before his execution?" Peeta asked.

"No, what?" Katniss responded.

"I don't know all the details, but whatever she said to him… it broke him. He was pleading, begging, even screaming. Johanna laughed in his face," Peeta paused for a moment. "She also, uh… she called him a rather foul word."

"Which one?" Katniss asked, curious.

"The word banned in District Twelve," Peeta stated.

Katniss knew right away which word he meant.

* * *

 **71** **st** **Annual Hunger Games**

 **Name:** Johanna Mason

 **Gender:** Female

 **District:** 7

 **Age:** 17

 **Kills:** 4

* * *

 **BAD ATTITUDE: SEVEN TIMES JOHANNA MASON CALLED SOMEBODY A CUNT**

* * *

 **#1**

Johanna was the third born child to her parents and the only daughter they had. In her younger days Johanna wasn't quite the foul mouthed and tough girl she'd become for most of her life. Of course, that all being said, she could certainly act like it if the moment ever called for it.

Her Grandma had a lot to do with this. The old lady had been something of an actor in her youth and had passed on that talent to her ever attentive granddaughter. Prior to that she'd overseen a small acting club for some youths in the surrounding area of Seven, a group Johanna had been quick to get in on and learn the ropes of being an actress within.

Johanna's first stage performance had been the source of much joy and excitement for her, the tiny little lumberjill barely able to talk of anything else in the weeks leading up to it. It was a classic that was to be performed – the tale of Little Red Riding Hood.

Naturally, Johanna had the leading role. For the first half of the performance things were going perfectly fine. The lines were all remembered, the rather low budget props all worked and the audience were having a good time watching everything play out. Johanna was ready to call it the best day of her life so far.

Or she would have if, after the break between act two and act three, one of the boys from her class at school hadn't started heckling.

"Oh Grandma, what big eyes you have!"

"Eyes that are no doubt defiled after seeing this acting!"

"…Oh Grandma, what big ears you have!"

"Poor Grandma having to hear this crud!"

"Grrrr…. Grandma, what big legs you have!"

"With legs like that you'd think she'd run away from this disaster!"

Johanna huffed and strained to think of something to make the boy shut his mouth. What word would suffice? What would rattle him to his very core?

What word had her dad used to describe the Head Peacekeeper when he hadn't realised she was in the room.

…Aha!

"Oh Grandma, isn't the boy in the audience such a cunt?"

The boy shut up after that, but the audience was sent into a sheer overload of shock. They all gasped in horror at Johanna's foul language, stunned she even knew such a word. From then on the play went off without a hitch.

Of course, Johanna got thrashed for it later and went to bed that night feeling a little sore. Still, stinging rump or not, she would always and forever declare that shutting up that boy had been more than worth every single bit of it.

She also began to, when alone, whisper the rather vile swear word under her breath. She'd giggle each time she said it, as if in wonder such a toxic curse was real.

She'd found her new favourite word.

* * *

 **#2**

Johanna had always arrived at the reaping with a different plan every year. When she was twelve she would just stay hidden in the crowd and not move anywhere – how would they know who she was without a photo? When she was thirteen she planned to kill every single other tribute. When she was fourteen she would stick it to the Capitol and kill nobody. When she was fifteen she decided to simply not get in the launch tube. When she was sixteen she wanted to form an anti-Career pack of her very own.

At the age of seventeen her plan was to make herself look as weak and pathetic as possible so that she could stay beneath notice and then murder the fuck out of the others when only a few were left.

"Johanna Mason!"

It seemed faking weakness would have to do.

Johanna wailed and sobbed like a baby as she mounted the stage, crying her eyes out until she was herded into the judgement building. She hadn't even seen who the reaped male was due to how into her act she'd been.

Her family had no idea she was acting. Stunned as they were to see her crying they did their best to comfort her. It meant so much to Johanna, not that she could admit this. She didn't want to let go of her act for a moment. What if she couldn't restart it? She had to be pitiful and nothing more.

For the most part the other victors of Seven had no idea that Johanna was laying it on thick and pulling a ruse over all around her. She seemed like just another terrified tribute, albeit on the upper side of the scaredy cat scale.

Pliny, during the short time she was awake, didn't suspect a thing. The elderly victor just felt really bad for what she perceived as a poor girl walking to inevitable slaughter.

Fir tried to tell jokes and offer Johanna hugs to try and cheer her up. It was the very essence of her soul to try and help those lost within despair. She had to try, even if it wasn't likely to work.

Snag understood how Johanna felt. He'd been much the same when he was reaped decades ago. He'd wept even more when Logger – he tried not to think about the monster – had killed Bloom. He knew her despair very well and hoped, by some sheer fluke, she'd survive just as he had.

Blight, always the somewhat kooky sort, gave Johanna plenty of advice for dealing with tracker jackers. It wasn't relevant at all, but why shouldn't she know it anyway? Blight could not think of a reason.

Logger, forever to be known as the district traitor and a coward to horrendous degrees, tried to bond with Johanna over the simple fact both lived in everlasting fear. They were two of a kind. Johanna couldn't tell him to fuck off, but bursting into tears and claiming being near the boy who killed Bloom was making her feel worse worked well enough to make Blight get Logger to bugger off.

Jack, the wily thief, was the sole person who did not buy the act for a moment. Being a street smart crook and having been cheating and smooth talking people for as long as he could remember had made him the sort to spot a phony from a mile away. He knew Johanna's game.

That was why he made sure to only tell her that he knew when they were both alone in the dining room carriage that night when everybody else had gone to bed.

"You're faking the coward act," he said, casually.

Johanna was stunned into silence for a few moments, lost as to what she could say.

"I love it. I'd like to be your official mentor for the Games," Jack offered Johanna a handshake. She slowly accepted it. "Now, if you're gonna be acting like a weak bitch for the Games ahead then I have one bit of advice for you… get better at it."

Johanna instantly ended the handshake. "Get better? You having a fucking laugh?"

"At your reaction now, yes," Jack let out a chuckle. "But seriously, you need to get better to the point even a crook like me won't be able to see through your act. The whole point of a 'wounded gazelle gambit', as they call it, is to not be detected. If another tribute sees through it then you're fucked… maybe sorta like old Peridot's district partner if you've ever watched the Eighth Games Games. I have, and-."

"Oh fuck off, you cheeky cunt!" Johanna yelled, pounding her fist onto the table.

Jack just laughed even more. "Johanna, I think this is the start of a beautiful friendship."

"It fucking isn't!" Johanna snapped.

Over the years Johanna would realise she had been wrong. Jack became her best friend by far.

* * *

 **#3**

Johanna hated a great many things when it came to the world. Tree chopping, birds, the Capitol, dancing, table manners, scrabble, frogs and even high pitched laughter. This was hardly the full list.

Her arena was very close to the top of the overall list. For the Seventy First Games the gamemakers had decided to drop off the tributes in a place that could best to referred to as having 'scrub terrain'. Numerous dry bushes were all over the place, the ground was often quite sandy, large boulders were littered around for no apparent reason and the heat was unbearable.

Indeed, the heat was one of the biggest problems for the tributes to contend with.

The bloodbath had ended up an oddly low number of death – just five. It hadn't ended up mattering, not when dehydration was able to kill just as effectively as a sword could. It was simply a matter of time. Over the first four days three tributes died of unbearable thirst and five more went insane over the lack of water.

The snakes sucked. They bit several other tributes, including the girl from Two, and on the off-chance their venom did not poison a tribute into a horribly prolonged trip journey to the reaper then they'd leave a tribute paralysed for twelve hours.

Johanna had kept herself alive by avoiding danger, fleeing anything remotely scary and living off of water Jack was able to send into her. He was forbidden to sponsor her himself, of course, but nobody said he couldn't rob a bank, pass the money to a few contacts and have them send the money back to him through the approved channels.

It wasn't stealing if he wasn't caught.

He also send Johanna a cryptic clue of where to find a treasure. It led Johanna to where the girl from Four was almost dead from dehydration. Johanna stole the girl's axe and ran away once more.

She kept running until eventually just five tributes were left and the girl from One was approaching her. Johanna had spotted her from literally a mile away and recalled just how few people were left.

She'd assumed a fetal position and began to weep like a baby in hopes of drawing her over. It had worked like a charm.

The girl from One came closer and closer, starting to snicker as she closed in like a predator to its prey. She raised her spear in preparation for the murder.

When she was one step away Johanna dropped the act and, with a roar, bought her axe down to the girl from One's left hand, damn near severing it in the process.

The girl from One fell to the ground screaming blood murder. Johanna stood tall, no longer a crybaby. She was confident, vicious and cold in the eyes. It was like looking at a completely different person.

Before long the girl from One lay sobbing in agony and terror, her hands and feet chopped and split horrifically by Johanna's axe. Johanna loomed over her, sneering at the trained killer.

She couldn't resist dragging things out a bit. Not like this girl hadn't done the same already and surely planned to do it again, right?

"How does it feel to have wasted your entire life training for a Games you were never going to win," Johanna sneered down at the girl from One, idly tossing her axe between her hands. "You'll be forgotten, just like every other dead tribute."

The girl from One had already been crying blood, but now genuine tears joined the mixture. Her life was over and had been wholly wasted. Only right before the end did the poor girl realise how foolish an idea it was to be a career tribute.

"Farewell cunt," Johanna said, tightly gripping her axe with both hands.

Johanna bought the axe down, damn near decapitating the girl from One. Johanna wiped away the blood that had splattered onto her face and pillaged the dead tribute's supplies she left to hunt down the remaining tributes.

If she recalled lightly it was just the lanky boy from Five, a starving boy from Eight and a blind girl from Eleven. It wouldn't be hard to win, not with the last career dead and her act no longer needing to be upheld.

She was right. She became a victor only fourteen hours later.

* * *

 **#4**

When Snow wants something he always gets it. Whether it was a bottle of fine wine, roses for his garden or forcing a victor to be a prostitute as a means for him to make a huge profit out of.

Johanna didn't know this. Nor did she know what befell the relatives of those who refused him.

It was just after the post-games party at the president's manor when she was called to a meeting, getting her first chance to properly meet the most powerful man in Panem.

"Congratulations on your victory," Snow said. "I must say, you were a bit of a slow burn… but in the end you were easily one of the best tributes of the year. I'd go as far as to say I even like you after watching your clever ploy."

"Right. Forgive me if it'll take a long time for me to return that good will," Johanna said, dry.

Snow just chuckled, slightly amused. "Fair enough I suppose. Luckily, I'm not overly concerned if you like me or not. By all means hate me if you feel you must. Part of being a president is having thick skin to insults. Anyway, I didn't call you in here to make small talk. I had something else in mind."

"What might that be?" Johanna asked, still dry.

"Simply put, you're a popular victor with a lot of fans. Fans that want to get to know you," Snow began. "Part of being a victor is upholding certain responsibilities to your fans within the Capitol."

"Signing autographs?" Johanna guessed, idly crossing her arms.

"Having sex with your fans, or 'patrons' if you will. Refuse at your own peril," Snow gaze Johanna a look befitting of a snake. "You'll do it and-."

Snow recoiled in shock when, by sheer reflex, Johanna punched him in the face.

"I'm not being whored out to a bunch of three hundred pounds pieces of shit with green hair. Those freaks can go die in a fire for all I care," Johanna spat. "I handled the Games. I can handle whatever you do to me. Threats, assassins, the whole works. Good fucking day, cunt."

Johanna left the room, leaving Snow to grimace as he clutched his nose. He gave the order to have Johanna's family executed within a minute and acted like he wasn't remotely phased.

Only when he was certain he was alone did he let out a pained groan. That bitch hit hard!

When Johanna returned home she learnt the consequences of her actions. Snow did not always target people who pissed him off, not when they were tough as nails and ready for anything.

He'd rather have their loved ones killed and leave their heads lying around the offenders new home in the victor village.

Johanna could only weep. It was a long and hard effort to keep her stable for the first few weeks after that, but it was an effort most of her fellow victors in Seven, sans Logger, were willing to make.

Nobody wanted a victor to go down the terrible route Pi had almost fifty years ago.

Pliny, in the last few weeks of her life, held Johanna close. The sleepyhead always was a gentle sort – her one kill, after all, was a mercy kill only done to _prevent_ further agony -and did her very best to provide the comfort and kindness that Johanna needed.

"It'll be alright," Pliny whispered. "One day things will be alright. You must believe…"

Johann believed alright.

She believed that she'd be happy once the Capitol burned and Snow died a terrible death. There was nobody left that she loved. Nobody to use against her.

She had no reason to not become one hell of a rebel.

* * *

 **#5**

In the end all people had to say goodbye and move from this life to the next. Victors were certainly no exception to this law of reality.

Fir wasn't an exception.

It was only two weeks before the reaping of the Seventy Fourth Hunger Games when Fir lay on her deathbed, just about ready to pass away. It was old age, the doctors said. Mere natural causes.

That didn't mean any of the many people who loved Fir, having been touched by her kindness and laughter over the decades, felt alright with this. It was a tragedy in the making. Pliny had only died a few years prior, nobody was ready to say goodbye to another victor of the lumber district.

Surrounded on her deathbed by the other victors of Seven, sans Logger, Fir didn't seem bothered at all. In fact, she was still smiling all the way to the end.

"I'm glad you're all here, right at the end," Fir whispered, weakly reaching to try and take somebody's hand.

Snag wheeled himself closer and gently took hold of Fir's left hand.

"I'll miss you guys, and I know you'll miss me," Fir had to pause for a moment, ever so tired. "But we'll see each other again. Just like I'll be seeing Monty again."

The thought of seeing the Peacekeeper who practically raised her made Fir smile.

"I believe you can win," Fir's voice was getting weaker. "I believe you can beat them. All you need to do… is work together… and be excellent to each other…"

"We will Fir," Snag said, tears in his eyes. He'd miss his mentor terribly.

"We'll give them hell," Blight promised.

"Fuck that, we'll give them triple hell," Johanna vowed.

Jack gave a simple not. He wasn't subtle about the fact he was trying not to cry.

"It's just like Pliny said," Fir added, starting to drift away. "You must believe…"

Fir closed her eyes, a smile on her face, and went silent. It appeared that she had died.

The victors lowered their heads in respect and to hide their tears. It had barely been five seconds and already the loss was hitting them hard.

Logger entered the room a moment after that, quietly mumbling something about the doctors needing to take the body away.

"BOO!"

Everybody screamed in terror, all but Snag falling over in a fit of panic, because Fir had suddenly sat bolt upright with a scary look upon her face. She giggled like a schoolgirl when she saw how shocked the others looked and how Logger had passed out into a complete faint.

"Got'cha!" Fir teased.

Fir weakly lay down, starting to drift away for real. A smile was forever etched onto her face, a look of joy in her eyes just like when she was a little girl.

"I had to do it. Just one final joke," Fir whispered.

Fir died for real only a few moments later. The victors were still stunned by what had just happened and Johanna was the first to speak.

"That cheeky cunt!"

* * *

 **#6**

Because both Pliny and Fir had died Johanna was forced into the quell. It hadn't even been an intended fix like what Katniss suffered. It was just her own shitty luck and the timing of her friends' deaths that condemned her.

Jack had stepped up to mentor her once again while Snag had volunteered to mentor Blight. Johanna did not know where Logger was and also did not care.

Why spare a thought about the district traitor when she could be brushing up on her skills?

Of course, Logger was not the only victor that Johanna had a particular dislike for. Tabbock was another person whom she could not stand. The hammy and rather sociopathic victor was not popular amongst those from Seven – not after what he'd done to their female tribute that year – but beyond that Johanna just found him annoying.

The fact he was juggling axes near her only served to deepen the level of annoyance.

"Could you stop doing that?" Johanna asked, dull. "I'm trying to focus."

"I don't tell you how to live," Tabbock grabbed an additional three axes to juggle with, for a total of ten. "But I could tell you how to disappear. You never know what may happen in the arena."

"Watch yourself shiny. You don't want to push your luck with me," Johanna said, her eye twitching.

"Why not? You won because of an act, one you cannot repeat a second time," Tabbock finished juggling and set the axes back into place. "I'm all about acts, and yours was good… for one time only. I'm not about repeat performances."

"Well, neither am I," Johanna replied, taking a step closer to Tabbock. "The disappearing box, the trick with the balloons, that shit with the saw? We know all of your tricks."

"Those were but a mere handful of tricks. I have thousands in mind," Tabbock replied, laughing. "I guess we'll soon see whose tricks are better, eh? I dealt with a girl from Seven before, I can deal with another."

"I've dealt with people like you before as well," Johanna cracked her knuckles before throwing her axe into a target. "Bring it on, cunt."

Tabbock soon left with a laugh, not remotely bothered by the vulgarity sent his way. Johanna, similarly, was not bothered by any of the threats Tabbock made to her or any of the other victors. He didn't have the Games quite as in the bag as he thought he might.

He'd not been given any details on any rebel plans whatsoever, same as Cashmere, Gloss, Enobaria, Brutus, Neon, Arendellian and Skinner. He had no idea about the massive alliance nor the breakout that was looming near. Everybody else either knew the whole plan, knew a few select bits and pieces of it or, in the case of the 'star crossed lovers' were in the dark about it for their own safety.

If Johanna had her way then she'd be out of the arena before the fifth day and Tabbock would be dead in the bloodbath.

The fewer victors that sided with the Capitol, the better.

* * *

 **#7**

Johanna strolled into President Snow's rose garden, after the guards made sure she lacked weapons and knew that there were consequences for any attempts on Snow's life.

The bearded bastard was to die the following die, not any sooner and not by anybody but Katniss.

They needn't have worried. Johanna had something else in mind than breaking Snow's body.

She was going to crush him psychologically.

Of course, it wouldn't be easy. Not when he appeared calm and composed over having lost the war and set to die the next day. Indeed, if anything, he was rather cordial and even offered Johanna some tea. Things like threats or insults did nothing to lower his mood.

"My dear Johanna, your words are wasted on me. You won't be able to get away with hurting me, and I'm dying tomorrow unless some cosmic fluke occurs. I'm afraid there's nothing you can say to upset me. I've already lost, simple as that," Snow calmly say down on a garden chair. "What do you want me to say, exactly? That I'm sorry your family are dead?"

"We both know you're not remotely sorry. You probably don't remember their names or what they looked like," Johanna said, her voice about as cold as Snow's own soul. "I'm not interested in an apology I could never get. It wouldn't bring them back."

"Then what do you want?" Snow asked, still calm.

"You suffering," Johanna took a few steps towards Snow. The fallen president didn't flinch at all. "I want you to feel the same agony, the same sheer mental torment you've put so many thousands of people through for decades you fucking bastard!"

"You're not going to get it. Like I said, I've lost everything and you cannot inflict anything upon me that would be of any consequence. Say you did discard all warnings and attack me anyway… who cares? Guards would flock in before you could do anything and a bruise is hardly a big deal to me now. If you broke my neck, well, I'd lose… say, twenty hours? Not a big loss," Snow took out a handkerchief, coughing out a few drops of blood. "You'd have to get plenty creative, and while I have no doubt you are able to… I still don't care."

Johanna looked in Snow's eyes. She looked at him with a particularly nasty, almost downright evil glimmer within her own eyes.

She knew _exactly_ what to say.

"Myself and the other six remaining victors had a vote for one more Hunger Games. One with Capitol children," Johanna leaned closer to Snow. "Three votes no, four votes yes. Your granddaughter is going into the arena. It'll be known that your regime led to this."

Johanna leaned so close she was almost touching noses with Snow.

"The other tributes will know this. They'll take their anger out on your granddaughter," Johanna's grin grew in size. "They'll torture her and she'll know it was all your fault."

Snow had turned pale.

"No… no…" he trembled for a moment. "Not Rhonda. Please… please! Not Rhonda!"

Johanna laughed. She laughed loudly right in Snow's face, delighting in the terror he was now displaying. This in itself made the war and all she had been through totally worth it.

"She'll die scared and alone and it'll be your fault," Johanna stood back, watching Snow starting to have a mental breakdown. "Looks like even you have a weakness Snow. Your love for your granddaughter."

"Please, don't hurt her," Snow was forced to stop begging and cough more blood into the handkerchief. "Please!"

"You had my family killed. I owe you nothing, cunt," Johanna sneered. "Have a good rest. You have a big day tomorrow."

Johanna turned and took her leave, the sounds of Snow's continued wheezes and choking remaining ongoing behind her. She didn't stop smiling for a long time afterwards.

Life was good.

* * *

Katniss and Peeta soon moved on from Johanna's imprinted face. There was little need to linger, not when they would be seeing her again in no more than a few minutes at most.

They soon arrived at the seventy second face upon the sidewalk. The girl looking back at them had an eager grin on her face, mischief in her perky eyes and had her bushy hair put into a pair of large pigtails.

"Numi," Peeta recalled instantly. "The thing I remember most about her isn't so much her Games, it's her victory tour. Remember when she was in Twelve?"

"Yeah, I remember how she treated the tour as a chance to get her name out there as a rapper," Katniss covered her face. "It was so bad that she made Prim cry."

"You know the crazier part?" Peeta paused for a moment, as if wondering if he should dare to continue. "Gale liked it and was singing along with her."

* * *

So, foul enough language or not foul enough? Haha, hope you guys enjoyed reading this one! It strikes me as very in-character for Johanna to use this sort of vile profanity against people who piss her off, so naturally I just had to make a chapter all about it. It certainly proved to be quite a fun chapter to write overall. Do you guys agree? In any case, just two more victors left on the Walk of Victors and it's almost time to meet the first of them – Numi Marrolto, Bentley's #1 fangirl and a pro rapper (in her own mind only…)

* * *

 **Stats**

 **District 1:** Peridot Gaudy (8th Games), Crystal McCree (14th Games), Bronze Marley (19th Games), Crown Martins (24th Games), Dollar Dettwieller (32nd Games), Mascara Court (41st Games), Platinum Twist (44th Games), Gloss Lord (63rd Games), Cashmere Lord (64th Games), Augustus Braun (67th Games)

 **District 2:** Baron Overwhill (4th Games), Runa Peace (7th Games), Olga Machete (10th Games), Rook Valiant (17th Games), Boulder Atherston (20th Games), Vercingetorix Carnby (25th Games), Dragon Batofel (27th Games), Rhyder Overwhill (39th Games), Mercy Gregor (46th Games), Brutus Gunn (49th Games), Lyme Rabe (51st Games), Enobaria Golding (62nd Games)

 **District 3:** Honorius Perthshire (5th Games), Pi Orbit (22nd Games), Beetee Latier (37th Games), Wiress Plummer (47th Games), Yohan Fairbane (58th Games)

 **District 4:** Museida Selkirk (3rd Games), Mags Flanagan (11th Games), Tide Luther (23rd Games), Librae Ogilvy (35th Games), Anchor Paddock (52nd Games), Finnick Odair (65th Games), Ron Stafford (68th Games), Annie Cresta (70th Games)

 **District 5:** Shunt Gaspar (12th Games), Isobel Sparks (18th Games), Crimson Flanders (29th Games), Porter Tripp (38th Games), Neon Erg (48th Games), Wattzon Holmes (55th Games), Arendellian Spinner III (57th Games)

 **District 6:** Chassis Macalister (31st Games), Bentley Corduroy (54th Games), Porsche London (56th Games)

 **District 7:** Pliny Aransio (2nd Games), Fir Buzz (9th Games), Jack Tylos (21st Games), Snag Nakamura (34th Games), Blight Jordan (53rd Games), Logger Barlow (61st Games), Johanna Mason (71st Games)

 **District 8:** Woof Casino (16th Games), Paige Murphy (30th Games), Spool Nylon (42nd Games), Cecelia Mog (60th Games)

 **District 9:** Mizar Aldjoy (1st Games), Gwenith Rosebud (13th Games), Teff Withers (28th Games), Laurel Flamsteel (36th Games), Tabbock Summers (43rd Games), Trevy Vex (Escaped 55th Games)

 **District 10:** Stallion March (26th Games), Lammy Phyronix (40th Games), Pasture Gallows (59th Games), Skinner Alecto (69th Games)

 **District 11:** Bear Redfoot (15th Games), Seeder Howell (33rd Games), Chaff Mitchell (45th Games), Spud Munroe (66th Games)

 **District 12:** Duke Saint-Rose (6th Games), Haymitch Abernathy (50th Games)


	73. Numi Marrolto

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Hunger Games. They belong to Suzanne Collins.

 **Note:** Here we go, the last victor from Six! Fun fact, Numi was not originally part of the victor line-up (it would have been a fifth D11 Victor) but, as with several of my ideas, the prospect of her being in this story just hit me randomly and I simply had to do it. If you've been reading my stories and looking at my DA page for years then you may even recognise her – she was going to debut in a Total Drama fic titled 'Total Drama: Reds VS Blues' before I retired from that fandom and took down the unused cast pics. But here she is, back for a second chance at actually doing something and better than ever!

N.C.s 1 Fan, a beta content journal will indeed show up on my deviantart page (it's been a little dormant for bit, but maybe I'll get using it a touch more soon?) and you can edit chapters simply by replacing the current chapter with a new file. Easy stuff. Anyways, good catch with those inconsistencies, I'll fix them soonish. Fun facts regarding some of the old victor names:  
\- Weed was replaced by Snag. Sort of a medic who cannot help but heal tributes rather than kill.  
\- Wheat is the old name for Teff. Meanwhile Nelli is the previous name for Gwenith. Nothing else is really different about them.

* * *

Katniss tried not to think about the day Numi had visited District Twelve on her tour. The girl had been really friendly overall, but the rapping… good Lord, the rapping! Did it really have to be about coal and pick axes of all things?

"You know what I find most odd about Numi? She was a girl of status and class," Katniss shook her head. "Or, well, apparently. For being the daughter of a mayor, she sure didn't act like it."

"She was a teenager at the time," Peeta said, a small smirk on his face. "If anything, having status would probably give her more freedom to goof around than anybody else would have."

"I guess that makes sense. I'm not one for rap, but she sure made the parade interesting," Katniss chuckle faded away into gloom. "It helped distract from the fact the Twelves were naked and covered in coal dust."

"Yeah, that was an awful idea. We lucked out getting Cinna and Portia," Peeta agreed. "You know, I always wondered how she did that tyre running thing. I had no idea it was possible to run so fast on one of those."

"If she's at the party you could ask her," Katniss suggested. "If any District Six victor made it out alive it'd be her. I think Chassis died a few years ago and the morphlings-"

"Bentley and Porsche," Peeta interrupted.

"Yeah, them. They died in the arena," Katniss sighed to herself. "Poor guys."

The pair trailed off into a silence.

* * *

 **72** **nd** **Annual Hunger Games**

 **Name:** Numi Marrolto

 **Gender:** Female

 **District:** 6

 **Age:** 15

 **Kills:** 7

* * *

It had been a fairly dreary summer in District Six so far. Summer showers, wages being lower all around, plenty of gang violence and the smell of petrol was starting to move beyond 'sixty percent revolting'. It was, all things considered, a natural progression of things given how life in the district often considered joint-worst with Twelve often was.

The loss of Chassis, their legendary first ever victor, had similarly kept spirits across the district quite low. His cancer had come back with a vengeance, one that he knew he'd not survive. So, rather than spend his last month laying down in agony and waiting for the cancer to kill him… he decided to take the cancer down with him, whether it liked it or not!

He'd died during a particularly reckless and chaotic demolition derby. He'd actually won regardless, but dead was still dead whatever way one were to put it.

It was much the same as Baron, the first ever volunteer. Some peacekeepers had let slip of the old man's peaceful death some time after the fact, he having died in his sleep without pain nor fear. How ironic it was that Two and Six, always rivals and hating each other, had lost their first victors on the same day.

The same hour, in fact.

Regardless, whatever the time or cause, dead was dead no matter what.

That had been two months prior and the district was still downtrodden as ever. Still, there were some who nonetheless had it in them to smile and laugh. Those who managed to overcome the tears with a cheer. Those who hadn't given into the Capitol's crushing regime just yet.

Numi Marrolto was one of those people.

One half of a set of identical twins born to the mayor of Six and her husband, Numi was the younger daughter… and she lacked _any_ of the maturity or class her beloved sister Nuvi had. Numi was loud, prone to laughing at inappropriate times, had a rather naughty sense of humour, was prone to speaking without thinking, used awkward 'street lingo' and had dreams of being a professional rapper.

Leave the mayor stuff to Nuvi's future, Numi knew her destiny was on the stage!

Our story begins on reaping day for the Seventy Second Hunger Games. Numi had left her grand house, practically kicking the door open as she did every morning, and made a mad dash for her car – a graffiti covered roofless mustang. Nuvi awkwardly followed behind her and climbed into the passenger seat, watching as Numi slid over the bonnet and swung herself into the driver's seat.

"Why do you keep doing that?" Nuvi asked. "…And why take the car? The reaping is only two blocks away."

"We're picking up da gang, gal pal," Numi said, making finger guns towards Nuvi. "Figure I might as well give 'em a lift, ya cuz?"

"…Just don't talk like that where too many people can hear you," Nuvi pleaded. "I love you, really… but it's just so embarrassing."

"No promises Nuvi," Numi said, laughing as she turned the ignition key. "Well, 'cept that if your name comes outta that reaping bowl, I got'cha. I'll volunteer."

"Awwwww, thanks," Nuvi smiled. Embarrassing as her twin was, she couldn't deny how much she loved her.

She just wished for less rapping, less slang and, if possible, for Numi to put her hair back to its normal raven and ponytail look, not the dyed platinum blonde and pigtails she'd taken on since four months ago.

"No prob sis. Now, away we go!" Numi cheered, slamming her foot on the gas pedal.

"WAAAAAAAH!" Nuvi screeched, holding on for dear life.

* * *

It wasn't long before Numi had picked up the rest of 'da gang' from their homes. In this case, outside of herself and Nuvi, the gang was made up of Herbie, a fairly timid and squeaky voiced garage attendant, and Tamora, a fairly moody and temperamental mechanic.

Against all odds the four got along wonderfully. Tamora was a lot more friendly around her group, Herbie was generally able to get more than a few words out around them, Nuvi didn't feel even slightly intimidated by the others and Numi, well, she was just happy to have three people who would be willing to listen to her rapping.

"So, feel the odds are in your favour?" Numi asked the others.

"I hope so," Herbie mumbled, gulping.

"They better be," Tamora muttered. "Not like they are on a day to day basis. The world owes me one bit of good luck, right?"

"Totally," Numi agreed. "What about you Nuvi?"

"Well… only four slips. We're both as safe as we possibly can be," Nuvi glanced off to the side. "I'd rather not think about it until we get there."

"Fine by me. Eh yo, let's put da radio on," Numi giggled as she started to tune the car's radio, trying to find a good tune. "C'mon, c'mon…"

The others exchanged a wary glance, all knowing exactly what was about to happen, starting from when Numi found a song she liked.

"Numi, you ever think about not rapping while you're driving?" Tamora suggested, rooting into her pockets. "I'll give you ten caps if you don't. No fifteen! Fuck, I'll kiss you if you don't!"

Numi paused, slightly tempted by the offer. Alas, that was when she tuned into a radio station playing a bouncy sort of funk song with a piano, keyboard and banjo back-up to go along with it.

"Aw yeah!" Numi cheered, turning the music up. "Alright gang, here we feckin' _**go**_!"

Numi began to rhythmically rock herself left and right, steering with one hand and keeping a fist pump beat going with the other.

Alright, we're here, just sittin' in the car

I want you to show me if you can get far

Step on the gas

Step on the breaks

When I say boom boom boom, you say bam bam bam

No pause in between, come on, let's jam!

Step on the gas

Step on the breaks

Wakka wakka, beep beep!

Numi harshly turned to the right, making thick skid marks on the road as she did so. Her three passengers yelled in protest as they were almost sent flying from the sudden motion. Numi remained oblivious, still cheerfully rocking to her imaginary tune and keeping the rap going.

Come on, move fast, get goin' down the road

Get to the reaping, bet the escort's a toad

Step on the gas

Step on the breaks

Lots of paper slips, somebody's gotta be picked

Who is gonna get licked, who is gonna get nicked?

Step on the gas

Step on the breaks

Shakka shakka, boop boop!

A long street was all that remained until the gang would reach the reaping. By now Numi had gotten rather carried away, totally lost within the beat of her rap and blind to all going on around her. It was 'cool mode', a thing to be dreaded indeed!

Numi leapt out of the driver's seat and began to dance on the car bonnet. Her three passengers reacted with alarm and terror as the car began to swerve left and right.

"Holy shit Numi!" Tamora yelled, holding Herbie tightly for support.

"No, no, no!" Herbie wailed.

"Numi! Stop!" Nuvi pleaded, leaning over to grasp the steering wheel and fumble to somehow get the car to slow down. She, unlike Numi, had no idea how to drive a car.

Numi had no idea this was going on. She was content to rap, lost in her own little world of sick beats, beat boxing, booty shaking and energetic dancing. She hadn't even noticed the screams of her sister and friends nor realised how dangerous her dancing was.

Wanna win? Be a speed queen!

Wanna live? You don't gotta be mean!

Step on the gas

Step on the breaks

You don't gotta deceive, but you gotta receive

Most of all, you gotta believe

Turn to the left

Turn to the right

Through blood and bone, don't give up the fight

Drive to the end and you'll do it right!

At long, merciful last the car finally came to a gentle stop just outside of where the reaping was to be held. Numi casually hopped off the car bonnet, a casual smile on her face.

"Not a bad drive, eh guys?" Numi remarked, stretching out a little. "C'mon, let's get this over with."

Numi walked off, failing to notice her friends were pale faced and scared shitless. Nuvi puked over the side of the car.

* * *

"This is bad, this is bad, this is bad!"

Numi watched as Nuvi paced around the room within the judgement building. Nuvi hadn't even been the one to have her name pulled, Numi had, but with the way she was panicking one could be forgiven for mixing the two up.

"Nuvi, it's gonna be fine," Numi insisted. "I can win this thing, for reals."

"Can you Numi? Can you?!" Nuvi leaned against the wall, horribly weak in the knees. "If you die, half of me dies. Half! You're my twin, my match… my best friend…"

"And I will be coming home," Numi gently gave her sister a hug. "I know my head can be full of stupid sometimes, but I got 'dis. I can win, ya'll gonna see."

"Come on, use words," Nuvi groaned, trying to hide a sad smile.

"I can win. Sixes have won before. A girl from Six has won before," Numi hugged Nuvi closer. "All I have to do is cause a massive disaster to turn the tables. That's how Six wins. I mean, look at me, if anybody could cause a Games changing disaster…"

"…It'd be you," Nuvi concluded with a soft giggle. "Just be careful, alright? I know you're… well, you, but you can't be reckless here. You _need_ to play this careful and smart. Please…"

"I promise I'll do more or less exactly that," Numi saluted with her left hand. "Besides, there's an upside to all of this."

Nuvi looked stumped. "What upside could there possibly be?"

"I'll get to meet Bentley. He might even be my mentor," Numi giggled at the very thought. "Oooooh, I can hardly wait!"

"Sis, you're insane," Nuvi declared. "…I'm gonna miss your insanity. Please, come home safe."

"I promise I will," Numi said as she and Nuvi parted from their hug. "But… look out for Tamora, yeah? You know how she can get and, well… Herbie coming with me is gonna mess her up. One of us dies no matter what. Her leet bestie or her main squeeze, tough break."

"I'll do my best," Nuvi said, nodding. "Good luck."

Nuvi soon left to visit Herbie – no doubt it was going to be an awkward goodbye given how obvious Nuvi's preference for Numi living would be – and Tamora took her place.

Numi could over grin ever so cheekily when she noticed Tamora looked rather ruffled, walked a little clunkily and had a dazed look in her eyes.

"So, you finally took the initiative and told Herbie ya'll thirsty for him?" Numi asked, giggling.

"There was no longer any time to wait for him to make a move already," Tamora declared. "I regret nothing."

Tamora sat down beside Numi, suddenly forlorn. Vulnerable, even.

"I have no idea what to do. I've lost no matter what happens," she covered her face, shaking. "Either you die or Herbie dies. Is a tie even possible?"

"The rules say only one victor," Numi said. She snapped her fingers, inspired. "Rules were made to be broken. Imma gonna try and force a tie, gal pal."

"Please do," Tamora wiped away a tear. "Whatever it takes, try and find a way to pull it off."

* * *

It was, of course, no secret to anybody that Numi really liked rap music. However, there was something she liked even more than her central hobbie.

Or, rather, someone.

Bentley Corduroy, District Six's second ever victor, was Numi's idol. She'd attended tons of his shows, gotten a grand total of ten autographs from him and had copies of literally all of his merchandise, the lot of it carefully arranged in her room just-so in a highly specific ordering only Numi could claim to understand.

As terrifying as being reaped for the Games was, even with Numi's belief she had something of a chance, there was no way for Numi to deny that being able to talk to Bentley for more than a thirty second interval was literally the most wicked awesome thing in the history of forever. Ever! That was why, when the escort told her and Herbie that their mentors were about to make their entrance, Numi was bouncing in her chair with a grin stretching ear to ear.

Her grin turned into a look of genuine concern when she saw Bentley enter the train carriage. He looked absolutely exhausted, like he were seriously ill. But it wasn't a virus or a disease making him look so bad. It was drugs – morphling to be specific.

Porsche did not look much better in comparison, but at least she seemed able to focus on the world around her to some capacity. All the same, the escort was keeping a close eye on her as if expecting her to start trouble at any moment.

It was a well known fact that Porsche had developed something of a streaking habit after her Games were over.

"Tributes, meet your mentors," the escort stated. He sighed. "If one of you becomes a victor could you kindly not turn to drugs?"

"Drugs? They're… addicts?" Herbie looked anxious at the very thought.

"Unfortunately. I'd say winners do not do drugs, but these two won the Games and do them now," the escort looked thoughtful. "Then again, Bentley did drugs after he won, not before, so he might not count. Oh, but Porsche was a druggie to some degree even beforehand, so… hmmmmmm, this is tough…"

The escort continued to babble to himself and soon left the train carriage entirely. Numi and Herbie glanced at each other, wondering if they ought to comment on what just happened.

They didn't.

"So, is it alright if I call dibs on Bentley?" Numi asked, her eyes almost seeming to sparkle. "Pleeeeeease!"

"Go ahead," Herbie managed a weak smile in spite of his fear. "Enjoy hanging out with your idol."

"Oh, you bet I will my mans!" Numi exclaimed.

The reaping recap came and went – four deadly careers, a record breaking three convicts volunteering to evade death row, a scattering of weak and starved outliers and then Numi and Herbie awkwardly in the middle of it all – before the District Six team settled down for dinner and discussion of the Games ahead.

That was where the first problem arose, a problem that really should have been obvious a hell of a lot sooner.

Bentley and Porsche were on drugs and, therefore, not in a great state to actually do anything halfway resembling mentoring. Not even a quarter way. In fact, calling them a tenth of the way ready would require one to be overly generous indeed.

"So, how are we going to survive this?" Herbie eventually mumbled.

"Uhhh… I dunnoooooooo…" Porsche slurred, her eyes particularly unfocused.

Herbie got up and awkwardly waved his hand in front of Porsche's face. He got no particular response out of her.

"No, no, no," Herbie muttered, starting to look pale. "This is bad. Of all the times for my mentor to be stoned…"

"Hide da drugs my mans. Maybe throw her stash out the window?" Numi suggested. "Or, like, offer to buy her more with your victor winnings if you end up being the last one standing?"

"Think it'd work?" Herbie asked, doubtful.

"You lose nothing by trying," Numi stated.

"She's right," the escort agreed. "Honestly, I'd owe you a favour if you could get these two to hold back on the morphling for a while. It's got to a point where the other victors are starting to call them 'The Morphlings'."

"I mean… there are worse nicknames to have, right?" Numi awkwardly added.

"Don't know, don't care. Just saying, it'll take a lot to get these two to clean themselves up," the escort glanced at the two victors, shaking his head. "Porsche was already known for this since she was young. I don't know what got Bentley on it, but good luck getting him to tell you anything. It's a losing effort."

"Challenge accepted," Numi replied.

Soon enough the escort went to make contact with potential sponsors – it was a lie, they just wanted to watch Fiona and Lawrence in their room – while the pair from Six tried to talk to their mentors.

It was a while before any success was made. Herbie's offer to buy Porsche 'five car sized crates of morphling' with his victor winnings stirred the druggie to life. The pair left to a different carriage to start working things out, quickly leaving Numi behind.

Numi, of course, did not mind this. For the first time ever she was all alone with her idol and it was, in her mind, literally the coolest thing ever.

"Hey Bentley!" Numi exclaimed, moving to sit closer to Bentley. "So, you heard my name, Numi Marrolto. Just Numi works fine. Anyway, I'm a huuuuuge fan of yours and everything you stand for. Ten autographs and all da merch, boi! So, how're we gonna do this mentoring thing? What's my angle gonna be my mans?"

Bentley let out a weary groan. His eyes were glazed and he looked awful. Numi winced at the sight, but nonetheless she pressed onwards.

"I'm not without skills, kay-kay? I can rap, I can beatbox like a queen, I can run three times as fast as a career if I'm moving atop a tyre, I think I'm not shit at fighting and being creative about it if I gotta be," Numi ran her hands through her hair, thinking hard about what else to add. "Oh yeah, I can hold my breath for three minutes. Been practising in the bath since I was seven."

Numi paused, seeing that Bentley was still sitting hunched over and gazing at the dormant TV. Numi waved a hand in front of his face, quirking up an eyebrow.

"Yo, any of this stuff gonna be useful? C'mon, what's the biz' Bentley?" Numi waved her hand faster. "Hellooooooooo? Anybody home in there? My mans? Talk to me broski!"

Bentley began to shake, clutching his head with both hands. He mumbled something inaudible.

"Mind repeating that?" Numi asked, pleased that Bentley had finally started talking.

Numi felt her excitement soar. After so long she was gonna finally have a great one on one conversation with the greatest rapper who had ever lived!

"Shut up!" Bentley snapped, his eye twitching as he turned to glare at Numi.

Numi felt her excitement deflate instantly, much like a balloon shoved into an iron maiden. She flinched under the look Bentley was giving her. Numi was no stranger to glares, having always been in trouble a lot growing up, but this was different… this time the man she idolised was the one glaring at her.

"W-what?" Numi whispered, starting to get anxious.

"Just… just shut up, alright?" Bentley clenched his fists tightly, like he were having trouble getting his breath. "All the shouting, the dumb words… the reckless driving every week… getting too close and ogling me… just get out of here! Fuck off!"

Numi felt her world crashing down around her. The man she idolised, dreamt of meeting, longed to perform alongside… thought she was terrible.

Tears welled up in her eyes.

"I'm sorry," Numi took a step back. "I just thought… we could… be friends…"

"Get away from me!" Bentley shrieked, gripping his hair tightly.

Numi obeyed. Not wanting to upset her idol anymore and too saddened by his outburst to do more than weep she took off out of the carriage and away to her room. She locked herself inside and, for the first time since she was nine, started crying.

Bentley shuddered and gasped, the withdrawal symptoms hitting him worse than they already were. In a fit of desperation he took a syringe from his jacket and swiftly injected himself with the contents. Instantly he began to stabilise and then started to float off in his own world of drugs and dreams.

It still couldn't take away the endless guilt of the three lives he'd taken almost twenty years ago.

Not only that, but now he had to deal with the guilt of snapping at one of his fans during the 'cooldown' from a morphling high. She couldn't have known how he got when he was in need of another boost, not when he kept such things out of public eye. He knew he had to apologise soon, if it wasn't already too late that is.

After all, it was already far too late to give an apology to the boys from One and Two and the girl from Eight.

* * *

Numi awoke in a fit of fright at three in the morning. She was still on the train and not starving in some arena, suffering a fate of several careers chopping her apart with axes. All was quiet, the train moving swiftly and silently down the tracks.

With fear on her mind and hunger in her guts she resolved to pillage the fridge for a late night snack. What more could they do to her when the Hunger Games loomed so near?

Numi wasn't the only one awake. She entered the dining room, freezing in place when she saw Bentley sitting at the table, staring blankly towards the TV.

It showed footage of the avalanche from his own Games, the one caused by his own rapping. The one that killed three other tributes.

Bentley didn't even react as Numi slowly made her way towards him. He didn't react even as she stood beside him, watching his iconic victory with him.

"…Bentley?" Numi eventually whispered. "…My mans? …Are you alright?"

Bentley didn't respond. He didn't move his eyes away from their ongoing stare at the musical carnage on-screen.

"Are you still mad at me?" Numi gulped at the thought of this. "Do you want me to yeet myself outta your space?"

"…Have you ever watched my Games?" Bentley whispered.

"…Yeah?" Numi answered, slowly. "I, uh, skip all the parts you're not in."

"Do you? Well, even so, that means you won't skip the ending. My mountain top performance. The rap of a lifetime," Bentley shivered and it wasn't from the cold. "The murders."

"If it's an accident then doesn't that make it… um… manslaughter…?" Numi trailed off when she saw the angry, tormented look on Bentley's face.

"Dead is dead, no matter how it happens," Bentley closed his eyes and clenched his fists. "You think the fact it was an accident makes it better?"

Numi hesitated for a moment. "Uh… maaaaaaaybe?"

"No. It doesn't. I killed three people. Killing innocents? That is _not_ what I was all about. It's _never_ been what I'm about," Bentley sounded like he was going to start sobbing. "I was a pacifist. I thought people could live and find ways to get by as a team, not through causing pain. That was what my raps have always been about."

Bentley took a deep and shaky breath. He looked like he was close to being sick.

"Nowadays it doesn't matter how much I rap about pacifism and mercy. It doesn't matter if I speak in favour of the values of kindness. Not when I'm a 'victor', not when killing children is the only thing people will remember me for," Bentley starting to shake all over, a cold sweat pouring down his face. "Every single summer people in the Capitol keep telling me how amazing it was to see the rap induced avalanche crush three children. They swoon over how 'fun' it was to see those three die. It happens every… single… time…"

Bentley covered his face with his greasy hands, sobbing.

"A murderer is all I'll ever be. That's why I turned to morphling, it's the only thing that helps," Bentley wiped away a few of his tears. "When I start running low on it all the horrible feelings… they come back. It's why I snapped at you. I'm so sorry, I didn't want to hurt you."

Bentley whimpered.

"I never wanted to hurt anybody," he mumbled, barely above the smallest of whispers.

Bentley was taken a little off guard when Numi gave him a very gentle hug. She maintained her hold for several moments.

"I don't think you're a murderer," Numi said, briefly tightening the hug. "I think you're pretty great."

"You think so?" Bentley asked, doubtful.

"Fo' Sho," Numi said, nodding. "Pacifism rap? That's the coolest shiz evars. Seriously, why do you think so many people in Six love you? We're about the idea of no war and people not killing each other. I mean, I doubt many of us like seeing murder on the big screen."

"The Capitol sure does," Bentley flinched at the mention of the vile city.

"We're Six, not the Capitol," Numi stated. "We get your message and we get it out and clear, yeah-yeah?"

"But…" Bentley felt tears welling up in his eyes all over again. "The guilt… those kids I killed… I did that. I don't think I can ever forgive myself. I can't… I just…"

Numi moved to stand in front of Bentley. She casually switched off the TV and put her hands upon his shoulders, looking in his eyes. For a moment neither professional rapper nor amateur rapper said a word.

"Bentley, my mans, this reminds me of something my sis once told me a friend of hers read in a book," Numi cleared her throat. "There's nobody quite so badly punished as a dude who hits himself with the whip of his own remorse… eh, paraphrasing."

"What does that mean?" Bentley asked.

"It means that you need to forgive yourself," Numi insisted. "Just like I have to forgive myself for leaving the cap off of toothpaste."

Bentley gave Numi a dry look.

"Orrrrrrr, you know, forgive myself for being a screw-up," Numi chuckled awkwardly as she took a step back from Bentley. "I'm not asking for you to be ret-2-go in the morning or just get better in a snap. Just, y'know, remember a lot of people care about you. Ya'll don't need drugs to know that, well, I'm your biggest fan."

Numi paused for a moment, as if considering her statement.

"Seriously, I'm kinda obsessed," Numi admitted with an awkward sort of shrug.

Bentley thought over everything that Numi had said. With effort he took in a deep breath, exhaling shortly afterwards.

"You're right. I can't get better in a day, not two, not three… it'll take time. I can't forgive myself right away, but… I can try to, eventually," Bentley slowly stood up. "I've been lost in the dark for too long, it's time to turn on the lights… time to be around people, around friends. I mean, once I make some."

"I'll be your friend," Numi offered, excitedly bouncing on her toes. "I'll make you look even better in comparison!"

Bentley laughed. "You know what, maybe part of it is the leftover morphling speaking… but, Numi? I think we're gonna get along fine. Now… are you ready to be mentored?"

"Fo' shizzle!" Numi exclaimed.

"That's what I like to hear!" Bentley agreed. "Alright, the parade comes first and all eyes will be on the tributes. You need all eyes on you specifically. You wanna guess how you're gonna do that?"

Numi's eyes practically sparkled. "Rapping?"

Bentley confidently nodded, smirking for the first time in years. "Rapping."

* * *

Bentley had relapsed for a few hours the next day, but had managed to stabilise himself in time for the parade and to go over some tactics with Numi.

Having a tribute who adored his work ever so much and really liked him as a person made it just that little bit easier to fight his demons and do his best to mentor her as best as he possibly could.

With Chassis gone it was all up to himself to save a tribute from the Games. Porsche was a fine friend, but as a co-mentor? Not quite so much.

With a plan made and sealed with a fistbump Bentley left Numi in the care of her prep team and stylists. This year he did not plan on being one of the last two or three victors in their section of the audience.

As it happened Bentley arrived nice and early, taking his assigned seat within the small section for District Six, from three seats down to just two. The career victors had arrived early and had little to say to him, per the norm. The only other outlier there so early was Cecelia. She greeted Bentley with a friendly wave as always.

"Ready for another parade Bentley?" Cecelia asked, tired.

"I'd say so," Bentley replied, taking his seat. "You?"

"I guess so. I just hope my girl does better than Silky did last year," Cecelia shuddered, trying not to think of death of the poor girl who lasted a mere five seconds.

"Same for my tribute. I'm mentoring the girl this year," Bentley managed to softly smile. "She's really something. She's my biggest fan."

"Don't a lot of fangirls say that?" Cecelia asked. She paused, as if suddenly realising something. "You seem different… Bentley, you're not on drugs… you're just, well, yourself."

"Indeed I am," Bentley said. "It feels good."

"What bought on the change?" Cecelia asked, leaning a little closer. "You've always been, well… drugged."

Bentley just smiled. "I had a tribute looking after me when I badly needed it."

Soon enough the tribute parade started off. Two beautiful killers from One dressed as a king and queen, two ferocious warriors from Two dressed as barbarians, two geeks from Three dressed as lab scientists, two dockhands from Four dressed as pirates, two skinny kids barely starting high school from Five dressed in suits covered with batteries and then from Six…

"Whoa…" Cecelia whispered.

"Omgah…" Fir said, awed. "So cool."

"She certainly looks the part," Mercy noted.

"There's the victor," Bentley remarked, starting to smile.

Herbie was dressed up as a train driver. Numi, however, had been given a rather unique sort of costume. One only possible through the official recommendation of the rap legend known as DJ-CONCORD-Z.

Numi had been given a backwards hoverball cap, a pair of beam sunglasses, a sparkly black cape, a golden N necklace, a silver belly shirt, a jacket coated in graffiti-esque spray paint and a pair of desert cameo jeans. A perfect rapper outfit.

All this and a smoke machine had been attached to the District Sic chariot, as had a boombox. With a grand cheer Numi activated the boom box and took out a microphone.

Rap time had arrived!

Ridin' a chariot, really feeling that

Wish I was a racer, feelin' fast

Gonna fight hard, won't be last

Six won't be forgotten, won't be left in the past

I'll be the last tribute, outrank the cruel seven

If they die they ain't getting' sent to heaven!

Numi began to dance around and sway side to side on the chariot, eagerly listening to the crowd starting clap in time with the beat and cheer their approval.

With a knife and mace I'll sock and bop you

Gonna start with Glamour, yahoo-yahoo

I'll send Komodo off a high peak, woohoo

Mean ol' Eris, I've come to rock you!

Claw, you really ain't my friend

Pyromaniac Oxford, you'll be sent round 'da bend

Murderous Shovel, your wounds won't mend

Kidnapper Patchwork, you'll meet your end

Choking on a pebble, you second-rate zero outta ten!

The careers and felons were all furious while the audience was absolutely loving it. Even the other tributes were starting to get in on the beat and clap along with the Capitol crowds.

Numi could only grin at the responses to the show she was putting on. The feelings of delight were overwhelming – cool mode had arrived again! In one moment Numi vaulted herself into the air, performed a front flip and landed on the back of one of the horses pulling the chariot.

Hop! Get on my chariot and fly

Hoot! Come aboard for a ride!

I'll never quit running my mouth

Just like with the competition, I'll be runnin' 'em out

You'd best not try playing with fire

With my beets so slick and fast, you'll be forced to retire

C'mon, it's almost time for a smash!

Buckle up mother fuckers, it's time to crash!

The crowd were standing up and roaring their applause by the time the parade ended, all of them chanting Numi's name over and over. Numi just took a faux modest bow and hopped back into the chariot, ever so smug.

Sure, the careers and the three convicts were all snarling at hers, but Numi didn't care. She had a fanbase now! Booksmarts and sheer power was never going to be her game, not when neither were realistic options.

So, what angle was better than what Bentley had suggested? The showbiz side of the Games!

* * *

The training days were easily the low point for Numi. Sure, Bentley could give her tips for rapping once she was on camera again and find sponsors to support her after her stellar debut, but there was one fact that Numi could not ignore.

No matter how hard she tried, no matter how hard she schemed… one way or the other, she would have to best at least one of the other tributes in a fight. The Capitol wasn't keen on letting tributes avoid combat for overly long. Skinner only managed to remain out of much fighting because he was killing so many mutts, something Numi couldn't hope to mimic.

"Can't I just rap and hope they keep the rest away from me like they did for you?" Numi had asked Bentley during breakfast of the second training day.

"I had an established reputation going in. You're not at that level yet," Bentley had said, apologetic. "Even if they do… it won't last as long as it did for me. You don't just have careers to worry about, you have the criminals too. You'll need to learn how to fight or lure them into a trap."

"…Killing sucks," Numi had whimpered and, well, whined.

"Tell me about it," Bentley had agreed. "But we're past the point of trying to win without any kills… it cannot be done."

Bentley wasn't quite right in the grand scheme of things (but, that's another story…) but for the context of the Seventy Second Games there was no doubting his words.

That was why Numi tried to learn how to use a spear. It was a ranged weapon, so theoretically she didn't even need to get close to the other tributes to fight. A flawless plan!

Or it would have been if Numi wasn't too short to properly wield the weapon or had anything resembling talent for it. The trainer was dismayed indeed.

"You need to have more force behind your jabs than that. Same case for your throws," she had said. "It's not just about stance, it's about sheer power. A spear is the same as any other weapon in that it needs power behind each attack. Your foes are not going to run themselves through on your behalf."

"Not even if I said please?" Numi asked, cheeky.

"Why do I always get the stupid ones?" the trainer grumbled, a hand over her face.

"Just 'cuz my teachers say my head is full of stupid don't mean I don't know stuff, my mans," Numi picked up the spear for another try. "C'mon, lemme try again."

"You're making the exact same mistakes," the trainer droned.

"I'm being persistent and shit," Numi insisted.

"Well, you're right that you're being shit," the trainer remarked. "Look, you need more power behind the spear – _speed_. You're not the right body type for that. You'd be better served with knives."

"Speed? Hey, I'm plenty fast," Numi tossed the spear again, the weapon failing to pin into a target. "If I just had a car tyre then I'd be able to do 'dis shit. On one of them I can run three times as fast as your average career y'know."

"Uh huh," the trainer droned.

By the time lunch rolled around Numi wasn't exactly in the most wicked cool of moods. She idly stirred her soup, her eyes practically staring holes into the table. Herbie, sitting across from her, could only awkwardly watch while trying to eat his steak.

"Not having a great day?" he timidly asked.

"It's lame, broski. I'm not that good at the weapons or, like, much of anything in there?" Numi paused to sip some of her splendid spicy spud soup. Smashing! "I think popularity is all I can hope for. Do they count popularity when they hand out the scores?"

"I don't know," Herbie gulped nervously. "I'll be lucky to get a three. I'm not that good at much of this stuff. Just wrapping bandages, camouflage… nothing flashy."

"Good idea, we could flash them," Numi said, snapping her fingers.

Herbie could only stare, blank faced.

"I'm just kidding dude," Numi continued, snickering. "After what you and Tamora did, is that really such an awkward thing for me to say? Like, in comparison?"

Herbie just groaned, covering his face.

"Hey-hey, eyes up here," Numi held out a hand for Herbie. "Allies? We're fighting to make it home to the same peeps. I think one of us would have an easier time pulling that off if we work together."

Herbie didn't hesitate to shake Numi's hand. "You lead, I follow. I can't do this alone."

"Fancy that," Numi said, an awkward smile on her face. "Neither can I."

It turned out to have been a good thing indeed that the pair had agreed to work as a duo for the Games ahead. Numi scored a five, barely, and Herbie only attained a measly two.

Meanwhile Glamour and Komodo scored nines, Claw scored a ten and Eris had outperformed everybody with an eleven. The criminal alliance – made up of Patchwork from Eight, Oxford from Ten and Shovel from Eleven – had all gotten eights and all seemed more outwardly savage than the Ones.

Numi's odds weren't looking good, all things considered.

Just 35-1.

* * *

Numi knew her time to shine was the interview and Bentley had done his very best to get her ready for it. Both hoped his pointers would be enough for Numi to be the unquestioned star of the show. Only through sheer popularity was she going to have the long term support she was likely to be in need of if she survived the bloodbath.

Once the small boy from Five left the stage to light applause, more out of obligation from the audience than anything else, it was Numi's turn to be interviewed.

"From District Six we have a girl who claims to bring sick beats and slick rhythm all the way from the classy mayor's home of her district. Is she a true class act just like her mentor? Let's find out as we welcome Numi Marrolto to the stage!" Caesar exclaimed, the crowd roaring their approval a moment thereafter.

"Wish me luck," Numi said to Herbie from his spot right behind her in the line of tributes. "And good luck to you too."

Numi made her way out on stage, waving to the crowd and striking a few poses as she went. The audience were still excitedly whispering as she and Caesar began to speak, but the talking only lasted forty five seconds before Caesar ceded the stage for Numi.

It had been requested that for Numi's interview she be allowed to perform a rap to the nation.

It had been approved.

Dressed in her rapper outfit from the parade and backed by colourful smoke from a pair of smoke machines, there was no denying Numi was ready to make an impression.

It was rap time!

I'm a bit of an anomaly

An oddball goofball monstrosity

Not gonna die slow or horribly

If you're not from Six you're a wannabe

Should I thank my escort for reaping me?

Am I gonna become a problem? Probably!

Various stage lights began to repeatedly turn on and off according to the beat. Avoxes began to pass glow sticks out to the audience. They were, as could logically be expected, an instant hit.

I'm ready for the arena, I'm ready to go

What's the terrain? I sure don't know

Lost in a desert or freezing in a tundra

Stranded in a forest full of wonder

I'll fight 'till I'm dizzy and knock your teeth out

But drop me in a city and Imma gonna super shout

The crowd were now standing up and bopping their glow sticks up and down. All of them were enjoying the interview like no other prior. Numi herself could only grin widely, feelings of stardom flooded her mind.

It was time for 'cool mode' once again!

The background of the stage was digitally changed to an endless firework show and the music practically doubled in volume. All this and Numi grabbed onto a cable that fell from above, using it to start swinging around the stage.

You can't stop me even with mutts

You can't break me even with cuts

You ain't ever gonna be hearing my cannon

Within the arena, hold on the man eating salmon

I'm street smart, equally sweet 'n mean

And imma calling out thots yes indeed

I'm wound up like a tornado full'a pain

Let me loose and I'll go wicked insane

Later I might take a lil' drive in the car

But now's the time to shake your booty

Do the Hunger Games boogie with me!

The buzzer went off at that moment, signifying that the interview was over. Numi let herself drop from the cable, made a double peace sign whilst headbanging and left the stage to immense applause.

Numi could only grin like a complete hooligan over how clear it was that she was easily one of, if not the most popular tributes going into the Games.

However, the fact her own amazing performance had made it all the harder for shy Herbie to make an impression had a frown swiftly etched onto her face.

She'd have to make it up to him by sharing her sponsors and grabbing a present from the cornucopia from him. Maybe a sword?

"And people say I'm selfish," Numi mused, giggling. "Imma be a saint boyos!"

* * *

Numi stood on the roof of the tribute building at dawn the following day. She and Bentley shared one final hug, the hovercraft ride to near certain doom looming moments away.

"…I'm scared…" Numi whispered, finally without a trace of smugness, teasing or goofiness in her voice. Just the tone of a teenager in peril. "…Bentley…"

Bentley laid his hands on Numi's shoulders. They shook horribly from his ongoing withdrawal, but he managed to look his number one fan in the eyes.

"You can do this," Bentley stammered, his mouth twitching somewhat as well. "Of all the tributes I've mentored since I started this gig… I've tried believing in them all, but you… Numi, you're the one that there is no doubt clawing in the back of my mind about. You're the one who can make it home."

Bentley gave Numi a brief hug, something she was quick to return.

"Run fast and rap hard. _You can do this_ ," Bentley whispered.

Numi was grabbed by Peacekeepers before she could say anything in response.

"Time's up," was all one of them said.

Numi was dragged away and forced aboard the hovercraft in ten seconds flat. Not enough time for even a quick one line rap. Not even enough time to give Bentley a meaningful smile.

There was never enough time.

* * *

The first thing Numi saw when her launch plate clicked into place was rust coloured canyons towering over her. Beyond them was a deep crimson sky filled with a gigantic cluster of red clouds. This and the strong gust of wind blowing through the canyon had Numi and several other tributes feeling particularly nervous.

The careers and the convicts were, of course, not amongst those feeling this way. If anything they all looked particularly excited for what was about to happen.

The last thing Numi saw in the final seconds of the countdown was a distant iron bridge built between the two sides of the massive canyon.

The gong rang and the Games began.

"Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!" Numi yelled as she tried to make her way through the hoard of tributes running around and gather supplies of any worth. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!""

The first scream rang out barely fifteen seconds into the Games when Glamour swung an axe onto the chest of the small girl from Five. Numi tried to ignore the sight out the corner of her eye of the tiny body hitting the hard rocky ground, pausing to swipe up a bottle of water.

The second screech of agony didn't take long to arrive. Not when Eris easily caught the girl from Twelve and wedged a knife into her throat. The third wail came easily too – hardly a surprise when the criminal pack worked together to butcher the boy from Nine.

It was the fourth scream that really got Numi's attention, even if it was cut off after barely a moment. The sight of Herbie being skewered through the chest with a spear wielded by Komodo was something Numi knew would never leave her.

After more swearing, more panicking and much erratic movement Numi found herself in perhaps the worst spot an outlier could find themselves in – against the back wall of the cornucopia.

"Imma gonna die," Numi squeaked, glancing around in desperation for a hiding place.

The only such location was underneath a crate that had already been overturned earlier in the bloodbath. With no other choices aside running out back into the fray Numi hid herself under the crate, a spear clutched in her shaking hands.

She was forced to do something she'd always royally sucked ass at – stay silent.

Soon enough the last scream died away, a splatter filled the air… and all was eerily silent.

It wasn't long before the careers began to gather up their weapons and supplies, all of them cheering over the murders they'd just committed and comparing their killing techniques.

Numi tried not to scream when the four sets of footsteps drew very close to her hiding place. For now, at least, the careers weren't interested in the crate that had its meagre contents either pillaged or left scattered around.

"It was a fun work out and all, but honestly? We should have done better," Glamour said.

"I think we did alright. We had a messy job to do and we got it done quick and efficiently. Now the real Games begin," Komodo replied.

"She's right Komodo. Only six deaths and two of them were from the convict alliance. They're a real problem," Eris admitted. Numi heard the sound of Eris lifting up a large sword. "We should try and hunt them down before they get too far away. They'll be a problem if they get left alone."

"So, none of the others are worth worrying over? Seems… I dunno, short sighted?" Komodo said, uncertain.

"I mean, they're pathetic right?" Claw added, shrugging. "Well, the girl from Six has popularity on her side so there is that… but in a fight? She's nothing. None of them are except the convicts."

The careers soon agreed to head off and try to whittle down the rather large headcount before the other tributes could start getting far away. Komodo was left as a guard while the other careers headed off in the vague direction of the convict alliance, Eris leading them towards their goal.

Numi waited for a few minutes, during which time Komodo continued to sort the supplies meticulously and the cannons fired. Six were dead and eighteen remained to play the nation's cruellest game.

Numi waited no longer than an extra two minutes before making her escape. She carefully gathered up her supplies and lifted the crate over her head. She crept out of the cornucopia one step at a time and spotted Komodo with his back to her, comparing two swords side by side.

Numi chucked the crate at Komodo and legged it like a maniac in the opposite direction.

"Ack! What the shit?!" Komodo yelled, rubbing his head and getting back to his feet.

Komodo watched Numi fleeing in the direction of the distant iron bridge. Alas, his duties as a guard prevented him from chasing after her. What if other outliers were hiding around and were waiting to swoop in and steal a hoard of supplies?

He wasn't going to let that happen. He'd let the dim-witted rapper go this time.

Truthfully he had a vague feeling her own lack of common sense might get her killed without him even having to do anything.

* * *

Two days passed with a further two deaths, neither of which were Numi's. She'd been wandering towards the distant iron bridge, only to eventually realise just how far away it would be for somebody travelling on foot and how – a problem she should have realised earlier – there were zero visible foot paths leading to the upper areas of the arena. How was she supposed to reach it?

Numi had been spending the past two days moving from cave to cave around the canyons. Twice she had been seen by outliers and twice she'd managed to evade them. Neither the girl from Three nor the boy from Twelve would have been deadly fighters, but Numi didn't want to push her luck.

With only a spear, a few packs of dried beef and several bottles of water it was clear that Numi's survival was going to be a hard ongoing effort. The water ran out all too soon and only her ongoing popularity with the audience kept the parachutes of water bottles falling twice a day.

Numi knew it would not last forever. The only thing she could do was try to make the Games end as quickly as possible, before thirst and hunger could claim her soul.

"Urgh, come on brain. Think! How am I gonna do this? Imma need to end deze Games quick!" Numi panted and wheezed as the incline of the canyon path levelled out. "Think, think, think…"

Numi wandered on aimlessly, failing to hit upon a solid idea. She began to walk under a long wooden bridge as she kept thinking hard. Rails were secured onto the bridge.

"Chassis made the arena collapse and took out nine at once. An accident and this ain't an arena where that'd work. Lame! Bentley, my main mans, mah **boi**! He made that avalanche… no snow here, so rip that," Numi put a hand over her face, groaning. "And Porsche, she made trains wreck the careers' faces in one massive explosion. Oh, but lookie-lookie, no trains! What am I gonna do? Tributes from Six can only when there's a chance to cause massive carnage in one go…"

The sounds of screams and cheers, starting distant and rapidly closing in, made Numi pause. She gripped her spear hard in one hand and cupped her ear with the other.

"The heck?"

Numi suddenly looked up, spotting a minecart whizzing by with the pair from Seven riding within it. Two other carts swiftly sped right after them, one containing Glamour and the other being ridden by both Claw and Eris. The careers were swiftly gaining on the Sevens, laughing and jeering as they went.

They hadn't noticed Numi at all, leaving her free to observe as they closed in on the Sevens. The careers only laughed as they ignored the screams of the Sevens and worked to bash them right off of the tracks. One final smash from the Twos' cart did the trick and sent the sevens falling to their deaths down below.

The cannons fired one after another. The careers hollered, cheered and laughed as they sped onwards, oblivious to the prey behind them.

Numi could only watch in sheer awe of what she'd just seen. She then glanced down at the distant bodies of the Sevens before looking back at the increasingly far away careers with more awe.

"Eureka! That's it!" Numi exclaimed, squealing as she did a sort of happy dance. "Mine carts! Though, how to get the careers and convicts eliminated is the real question…"

Dealing with the reality that she'd have to commit murder was another question too, though not one she wanted to risk the audience hearing. Tributes that hesitated to kill and bludgeon others tended to rapidly fall out of favour. No favour meant to water. No water meant dying of thirst.

Worst of all, dying of thirst meant no rapping!

* * *

While Numi searched for an area full of minecarts to hide at and plan her gamble – whatever it ended up being – the careers and the criminal pack continued to hunt down the remaining outliers across the arena.

Over the next three days the separate alliance were responsible for a total of three more deaths. The careers easily killed the little boy from Five without mercy and then somehow managed to kill the girl from Eleven with even _less_ mercy. The highlight, of course, came from what the criminal alliance did to the poor girl from Four.

Some things were just too sick even for the Capitol to air in full graphic detail. The trio of Patchwork, Oxford and Shovel didn't care though. Not when their thirst for sadism and cruelty could be quenched without punishment and a pardon awaited the last one standing. With their cruelty and lack of any discipline it was hard to say who was worse between them and the careers.

The increasingly small number of outliers continued to hide away and try their best to survive somehow. The girl from Three kept pilfering small amounts from the cornucopia any time Komodo left to patrol the surrounding area, the boy from Four travelled to the highest of high ground to try and avoid being snuck up on by anybody else, the girl from Ten stumbling around in a daze due to her bloodbath wounds that had only gotten more and more infected over time and Numi, well, Numi had a plan.

It had been days of hiking without a solid destination and plenty of freestyle – and somewhat goofily cringey – raps as her journey to find some kind of a station or trainyard for the minecarts continued. It had been hard enough to find a set of rails to follow, harder still to pick a direction to follow them down and then hardest of all to keep moving and not be slowed by fear, fatigue or how sheerly homesick she was.

"Dad, momma, Nuvi… Tamora… I miss ya'll…" Numi mumbled as she wandered through a tunnel. "I'll try to be home soon."

By the time it had been four days since she'd seen the careers kill the Sevens – and a day since the girl from Ten had died from her terrible wounds – Numi found what she was looking for.

An old train station, complete with a platform and an office building, beside a large set of tracks. Several minecarts were parked beside the platform – seven in all – and the tracks led to the distant iron bridge, dormant under the grand glow of the mighty sunset.

The tracks between where Numi was standing and the bridge she'd spotted since the countdown were nothing short of incredibly hazardous to navigate.

Numi started to smile. She went from smiling to grinning to giggling to laughing like a hooligan. She now knew there was a way she could win this thing.

It would just need a bit of luck.

The same luck that had blessed Chassis, Bentley and Porsche before her to leave the arena with their lives mostly intact.

"Yo!" Numi called to the sky. "Seneca Crane! My mans! My wicked bearded boi! This is ya'll first year as Head Gamemaker, right? Mind doing me a solid, bruv? I promise, the ratings will make it worth your while!"

And so, Numi explained her utterly insane idea while moving to start looking over the minecarts.

She never knew that Seneca had agreed to her idea and told his gamemaker staff to get on with it barely halfway through her pitch.

* * *

Two days went by. The two big alliances hunted for tributes, the girl from Three hid like a scared animal, the boy from Four was killed by vulture mutts and Numi made her way up and down the tracks between the station and the bridge. She needed to be sure she knew the terrain perfectly, lest she end up very dead.

It was sunset by the time the mayhem was ready to begin.

While the girl from Three hid away in a cave further down the canyons the two main alliances were gradually being led by small mutts and strong winds towards the train station where Numi was hiding out.

The criminal pack arrived first, Patchwork pointing her out to his allies. The trio of monsters raised their weapons in triumph, ready to get on with killing. Numi merely waved and made a rude hand gesture from her spot in frontmost minecart.

"Get her!" Patchwork yelled.

"Guys! Look!" a distant voice filled the air.

From the other side of the station, slightly further away than the criminals were on their side, was the entire career pack. Eris practically salivated over the sight of so many targets being so close to her.

Numi fist pumped and quickly set her minecart into motion down the rails.

"Catch me if you can lamers! I got lips like dynamite and a booty like pow!" Numi teased, slapping her butt for emphasis. "Nyeh!"

The criminals ran for the minecarts, each of them claiming a different one and speeding after Numi before the careers were halfway towards them. They were gone all too soon, laughing and shouting.

The careers, of course, were not far behind them and quickly make it to the carts as well. Each of them claimed a different minecart as well and wasted no time in quickly speeding after Numi as fast as their carts would allow for.

Of course, there were only three careers and four minecarts. Komodo was left panting in the dust, forced to watch his alliance rapidly leaving him behind. For a moment he looked pissed off… and then just shrugged, nonchalant.

"Fine, whatever. Not like I wanted to risk my life and get into a crash or something anyway," he said, turning on his heel to start the journey back towards the distant cornucopia.

Numi held up her arms, cheering wildly as the wind hit her face and left her pigtails flying behind her. It was like a roller coaster on crack and she loved it!

"Woohoo!" Numi cheered, her fear all gone and replaced by glee. "Yeah!"

"We're gonna butcher you here and now!" Oxford yelled as his cart closed in on Numi's own.

Numi dodged two cleavers and quickly leaned to the left. Her cart was swiftly on a different track than Oxford's own, though now Patchwork was not far behind her. One look behind showed her that Shovel was gaining on her too, as were the trio of careers.

"Get the girl and the criminals too!" Eris yelled pointing forth with her sword.

"With pleasure!" Claw said, trying to make his cart move even faster.

Despite her nerves due to all the powerful tributes around her and the reckless speed she was moving at, Numi didn't let her foes see her inner anxiety.

She merely laughed as the massive downward incline loomed near.

"Hey guys! You know what time it is?" Numi exclaimed. "Rap time!"

Numi let out her loudest cheer yet as her cart went down the steep slope, doubling in speed. The careers and criminals followed mere seconds later, shrieking and yelling as their own carts picked up a massive boost of speed.

Rails, rails, rockin' rockin' rails

Blaze down da rails, don't commit any fails

My driving is rich, dope phat in which

We'll go real fast and scratch the rest like an itch

Rock, rock, rock your way down the rails

Listen to the wind as it hollers and wails

Blaze, grind and enjoy the ride

Run and laugh, there's nowhere to hide!

The incline levelled out for a few moments only to go into an even steeper drop than before. The tracks began to space apart from each other, some becoming raised up on higher levels and others moving onto unstable ground.

Numi carefully leaned to the left and right at sudden moments, seemingly at random intervals. She moved tracks too quickly for the rest to match her pace. They were too busy with trying to maintain their speed and attack both Numi and the opposing alliance. Knives, small axes and a pair of spears were sent flying around, nothing managing to hit the intended target.

You gotta move, you gotta everything to stay alive

Bumps, turns and traps, will you manage to survive?

Did ya did ya check the tracks to the left?

Did ya did ya check the tracks to the right?

Be wild, be cool, be groovy and fancy

But watch the rails, don't get all chancy

Faster, faster, things are getting crazy

Don't forget how to break or you're existence will get hazy!

Numi's track hit a ramp and sent her minecart soaring into the air. She held up her arms, enjoying the air time as she cheered wildly. She landed perfectly on the rails and sped off towards the grand iron bridge, the six stronger tributes in hot pursuit. Their minecarts were beginning to wobble, rock and rattle as their speed reached dangerous levels.

From the moment Numi thundered onto the iron bridge her cart began to send off a shower of sparks on either side. She put on a pair of sunglasses and, with a grand laugh, leapt up to stand on the front of the minecart. Cool mode was here once again!

A Marrolto ain't a girl to mess with

Try to hurt me and you'll meet my wicked shiv

Get a bandage wrapped around your back

Even in dese carts I'll drop your ass

I'll be rappin' all night, rappin' all day

Rappin' so hard, rappin' til' ya pay

Nothing can stop me, not even a wraith

Better watch out, you better take a leap of faith!

Numi began to beatbox, basking under the golden glow of the glorious sunset. From behind her the careers and the criminals finally realised that something was very, very wrong.

The wheels of their carts were starting to become dislodged and, due to the extreme speed they were going at, there was no chance of them being able to jump off and not break at least a few bones in the process.

Numi finally dropped back into the main body of her minecart, taking a bow for the audience. She held on tight for what was to come.

After clearing the bridge and shooting around the next corner the careers and criminals were forced into a state of terror and screaming at the sight of what lay ahead of them. There were ramps, tracks that were arranged like a massive double helix and even a few massive boulders blocking the way on some of the rail lines.

Numi, having been through this area on foot only the previous day, knew exactly what the safe route through to the other side was. She carefully weaved her minecart between the rails and out of danger. She become airborne twice, easily landing on the races thanks to her cart being the only one with secured wheels.

It hadn't been hard for her to be sponsored a screwdriver to mess with the wheels of the other carts. Growing up in District Six gave her all of the mechanic knowledge she needed.

Oxford was smashed into a boulder, Shovel had his neck crushed when his cart flipped over and Glamour became derailed and ended up pulverised after she and her minecart fell down a gorge.

The other three were no better off. Numi had maintained enough speed face the final jump where the tracks ran out with confidence, but the Twos and Patchwork had out of control carts now sporting only two wheels.

The trio fell to their deaths as soon as the carts left the tracks while Numi made a flying leap out of her minecart. She just barely made it, left hanging one handed onto the far side of the gorge.

"Come on, come on," Numi whispered, trying to pull herself up and not think about the thousand meter drop below herself. "No, no, no! Almost… almost!"

After the most terrifying thirty seconds of her life Numi managed to haul herself up onto solid ground once again. She collapsed onto her back, breathless and dazed from the wild ride she'd just survived.

The cannons fired, six in all. Nine had fallen to three.

Numi tried not to let it show just how revolted she felt about what she had just done. Even if it could be argued as indirect she'd still killed six people. She went from a Marrolto to a 'Revolto' – revolting morality, that is!

"Just two more to go," Numi narrowed her eyes, forcing herself to stand up strong. "Don't worry fam, I'll be home soon."

With no possible way to head backwards Numi's only choice was to keep moving forward. She walked on and on and on.

She was completely silent for the rest of the day.

* * *

The girl from Three had been a survivor this year, but not enough of one to evade Komodo down at the base of the canyons. Certainly not enough of one to fight him when running away was no longer an option.

Komodo was given a cut up his left arm. She was given two swords thrown through her chest and a third one slashed at her neck up close and personal.

Komodo swiftly bandaged his wound and let off to find his final opponent. The only worry he had was that Numi's rapping might make him go deaf… but really, would such a thing be so bad? He thought it sounded awful.

Still, she'd taken out the criminals and the rest of his strong alliance in one fell swoop. He'd be lying if he claimed to not feel grateful for that.

He'd pay her back with a quick and painless death.

* * *

Numi wandered aimlessly along through the lower areas of the canyon. It had been a huge walk already and for all she knew it could still be miles before she found the boy from One.

A big part of her worried that mutts would be unleashed if the fight did not start soon. It had been a day since the previous cannon had fired and it was rare for the last battle of a Hunger Games to be delayed for long in most years.

The sonar of a sponsor rang out towards the end of the afternoon. Numi glanced up, hoping for water and maybe some food.

What she saw had her feeling even more eager.

A car tyre! To most a wholly useless sponsor gift, but to Numi it was her final trump card she needed to make it back home with all of her limbs still attached. It was also a signal that her final opponent was surely getting very close to her.

"Thanks Bentley," Numi said as the sponsor gift landed beside her. She kicked the tire up and into position. "You're the greatest mentor ever. The greatest victor there ever was!"

Numi sincerely smiled to the nearest camera.

"I believe you can forgive yourself. I believe you're a good person," Numi narrowed her eyes, glancing off to the side. "Now, excuse me my main mans. I believe I have a Hunger Games to win!"

Numi spotted Komodo only a moment before he spotted her. The dashing career was armed with ten swords and several knives against Numi's single spear. It seemed like it would be a fairly easy victory for District One.

That is, until Numi leapt onto the tire and began to run upon it. True to her words she'd told the trainer over a week ago she was thrice as fast as a career when upon a tire. Three swords were sent her way and came nowhere near her.

"Get back here!" Komodo yelled as he tried, and failed, to keep up with Numi.

The career could only try helplessly to lob weapons at Numi while the rapper continued to speed around on the tire, bouncing off of rocks and leaping off of slopes. She was practically a blur of sheer movement and madness, one Komodo was little prepared to deal with.

Then the rapping began.

 _Hopped on the tyre and was ready to go-go_

 _Wind in my hair, loving it fo' sho'_

 _Met a career, 'twas loco Komodo_

 _He liked throwing swords so I told him no-no_

 _You better move quick cuz' you're in my dojo_

 _You look a bit thirsty, want some hot cocoa_?

Komodo yelled in frustration, switching to try and throw a few knives towards Numi or, failing that, towards the tire in hopes of busting it. Alas, Numi was too quick of a target to hit with his normal level of accuracy.

Indeed, she was so fast that she had been able to quickly divert her direction and slam right into him. Komodo felt to the ground, alive but with a bruised ego. He rose quickly, pulling at his hair and bearing his snarling teeth.

Running fast and almost outta time

I'd say my brain is kinda fried

All the other tributes have literally died

The finale's rockin', there ain't a place to hide

Get ready Komodo, the pain will be extensive

I'll wreck your watch, I bet it was totes expensive

Your muscles are awesome but your rap skill is empty

You're a bit of a walking L, ya get me?

Komodo wasted no time throwing a flurry of knives and swords towards Numi, shouting his fury. "Shut the hell up! Okay, screw a painless death, you're getting it real good now!"

Komodo clutched his last sword tightly, waiting for Numi to make her move towards him. Sure enough she seemed to be preparing to make one final charge right towards him from a distance away.

Numi began to rocket her way towards him.

I'm one half of twins, my name is Numi

Ask people 'bout me and they'll say I'm loony

I'm ready to rumble, ready to rumble

Gonna gonna, gonna gonna, gonna rap without a grumble

I'm gonna attack, I take no flak, always rhyming to da rhythm of the track

Gimme some aspiration, I'll give you a wicked sensation

Sorry to say it, but you're going down

Only one can win and Imma be wearin' dat crown!

Numi sped to a small rock on the ground and hit it at full speed. She and the tyre were sent flying through the air and right towards Komodo at full speed.

Komodo was ready to time his final attack just right and slice the rapper in half… or he would have been if the tyre hadn't hit him right in the face. He was sent staggering and this was all Numi needed to win.

She landed roughly, but it didn't matter anymore. Not when her spear had been impaled right through Komodo's chest, exactly the same as what he had done to Herbie back in the opening moments of the Games.

"Buy my mixtape!" Numi managed to slur out before she slumped onto the ground in a complete daze of physical and mental exhaustion.

The cannon fired, the trumpets rang out and the hovercraft descended to collect the nation's newest victor. Capitol citizens instantly began to demand access to the mix tape Numi had mentioned.

Bentley, meanwhile, wept in sheer relief.

* * *

Bentley and Numi stood below the stage in the days after the Games were over, soon to be taken above to the roaring crowd and the final interview with Caesar Flickerman. Bentley had given into the temptation of morphling a few times throughout the Games, but he'd managed to keep himself clean for the interview.

It was, all things considered, odd seeing him in a fancy dark green suit and Numi in a cute black cocktail dress. Neither liked the outfits much, but what could be done?

"Hey, uh…" Numi trailed off for a moment.

"What is it?" Bentley asked.

"Well, first of all… my main mans, thanks for saving me. I could never have made it out alive with you," Numi said, her eyes shimmering from tears of joy. "I owe you my life Bentley."

"All part of being a mentor, a rapper and a friend," Bentley replied modestly. "Honestly, I should be thanking you Numi."

"For reals? Why would you thank me?" Numi asked, curious.

"Well… though it's going to be a while before I can claim to be 'better' or really feel alright with myself…" Bentley paused for a moment. "Numi, you've given me a sense of purpose. You've reminded me there's more to me than being a man who caused that awful avalanche… you've made me believe it's possible to forgive myself one day, maybe one day soon. I guess what I'm saying is, well…"

Bentley wordlessly gave Numi a hug. Numi didn't hesitate to hug her dear mentor in return.

" **Thank you** ," Bentley managed to choke out.

"Anything for the legendary DJ-CONCORD-Z… better known as Bentley, the best mentor there ever was," Numi parted from the hug, practically beaming. "You know, I used to say I was your number one fan… but I don't think that's true anymore. I think I'm something even better.

"And, what might that be?" Bentley asked.

"Your number one friend, boi!" Numi exclaimed as the platforms beneath them began to raise them to the stage above. Numi put on her sunglasses. "So, I have the rest of my life to feel awful over those terrible kills, the loss of my friend and every other shitty memory. Until the interview is over… wanna join me in rapping, T-posing and dropping sleek phat beats?"

Bentley had already put on a pair of his own sunglasses. "Numi… I'd love nothing more. Let's do this, buddy of mine! But we're gonna need to give you a rapper name if you're gonna make it big like I have."

"Hmmmmm," Numi pondered this as the platforms were almost at the stage and the screaming crowd. "Got anything in mind?"

"I have the perfect name," Bentley said, smiling sincerely for the first time in ages. "Numilicious Beatz."

Numi had stars in her eyes. "That… is… AWESOME!"

The pair cheered in equal delight as they were raised in front of the cheering hoard. The future was surely not to be easy, but on this particular night in this particular moment?

Things were alright, and that in itself was a victory.

* * *

Katniss and Peeta soon moved on past Numi's imprinted face and kept on the move. The Golden Goose was barely ten meters away now, soft sounds of chatter coming from inside.

They looked down at the face of the final victor who preceded themselves. The firm, somewhat edgy looking face of a boy gazed back at them. He looked as though he practically oozed power. His hair was particularly short and everything about him seemed ordered and perfectly in place.

"That'd be Magnus," Peeta noted. "You ever wonder how he might feel about us, well, stealing his thunder as a victor?"

"No. Why?" Katniss asked.

"Well, people would've forgot about him. It'd mean nobody would have paid him much attention compared to other victors," Peeta pondered this for a moment. "He was a career so I'd have once assumed he'd be angry… nowadays, though? Part of me wonders if he'd be grateful."

* * *

Fun, huh? Well, I certainly had fun writing it at the very least. I'll own the fact I have little idea how to write rap songs, but given the fact Numi is not exactly that good at it I feel like it sort of fits, kind of? In any case, Parappa style raps or not, I feel like Numi makes a fun final addition to the D6 victor roster. Her friendship with Bentley was my favourite aspect personally, though Tamora's appearance was another addition I enjoyed. Hope you guys liked the crazy minecart chase and the tire riding finale. As with all D6 victors, Numi had to win in crazy awesome fashion. What do you think overall? Delightfully goofy? She rappin' awful? Let me know! In any case, only one victor on the Walk of Victors remains to have their tale told. Stay tuned!

* * *

 **Stats**

 **District 1:** Peridot Gaudy (8th Games), Crystal McCree (14th Games), Bronze Marley (19th Games), Crown Martins (24th Games), Dollar Dettwieller (32nd Games), Mascara Court (41st Games), Platinum Twist (44th Games), Gloss Lord (63rd Games), Cashmere Lord (64th Games), Augustus Braun (67th Games)

 **District 2:** Baron Overwhill (4th Games), Runa Peace (7th Games), Olga Machete (10th Games), Rook Valiant (17th Games), Boulder Atherston (20th Games), Vercingetorix Carnby (25th Games), Dragon Batofel (27th Games), Rhyder Overwhill (39th Games), Mercy Gregor (46th Games), Brutus Gunn (49th Games), Lyme Rabe (51st Games), Enobaria Golding (62nd Games)

 **District 3:** Honorius Perthshire (5th Games), Pi Orbit (22nd Games), Beetee Latier (37th Games), Wiress Plummer (47th Games), Yohan Fairbane (58th Games)

 **District 4:** Museida Selkirk (3rd Games), Mags Flanagan (11th Games), Tide Luther (23rd Games), Librae Ogilvy (35th Games), Anchor Paddock (52nd Games), Finnick Odair (65th Games), Ron Stafford (68th Games), Annie Cresta (70th Games)

 **District 5:** Shunt Gaspar (12th Games), Isobel Sparks (18th Games), Crimson Flanders (29th Games), Porter Tripp (38th Games), Neon Erg (48th Games), Wattzon Holmes (55th Games), Arendellian Spinner III (57th Games)

 **District 6:** Chassis Macalister (31st Games), Bentley Corduroy (54th Games), Porsche London (56th Games), Numi Marrolto (72nd Games)

 **District 7:** Pliny Aransio (2nd Games), Fir Buzz (9th Games), Jack Tylos (21st Games), Snag Nakamura (34th Games), Blight Jordan (53rd Games), Logger Barlow (61st Games), Johanna Mason (71st Games)

 **District 8:** Woof Casino (16th Games), Paige Murphy (30th Games), Spool Nylon (42nd Games), Cecelia Mog (60th Games)

 **District 9:** Mizar Aldjoy (1st Games), Gwenith Rosebud (13th Games), Teff Withers (28th Games), Laurel Flamsteel (36th Games), Tabbock Summers (43rd Games), Trevy Vex (Escaped 55th Games)

 **District 10:** Stallion March (26th Games), Lammy Phyronix (40th Games), Pasture Gallows (59th Games), Skinner Alecto (69th Games)

 **District 11:** Bear Redfoot (15th Games), Seeder Howell (33rd Games), Chaff Mitchell (45th Games), Spud Munroe (66th Games)

 **District 12:** Duke Saint-Rose (6th Games), Haymitch Abernathy (50th Games)


	74. Magnus Sterlingshire

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Hunger Games. They belong to Suzanne Collins.

 **Note:** It's been a long time coming, but here we are – the seventy third victor! The last one on the Walk of Victors we'll be learning the story of. If anybody has seen the first Hunger Games movie – and, like, you're reading a HG fic so I will assume you have lmao – then you'll have seen this guy. Magnus is the boy shown 'bricking' a tribute to death while Katniss watches TV alone on the train. That scene always captured my interesting because, well… if tribute outfit colours remain consistent (and in my canon they do) then he would have to be the D2M. But when he wins, he isn't cheering… he sighs in relief that it's over. Naturally this was plenty for me to craft a story out of. Hope you guys enjoy reading it!

 **N.C.s 1 Fan:** I'll be keeping quiet over Trevy's relevance to the plots of other stories I have on the go. Rest assured, he'll pop up here and there, always with something crazy or eventful to getting on with, haha. This story will indeed have an epilogue, but to go into depth would be telling. All shall became clear in time. :D One thing I can say, however, is that the fate of every single victor will be revealed. No stone shall be left unturned.

* * *

"You know, all things considered… Magnus didn't win particularly long ago," Katniss said, gazing down at the imprinted face. "Feels like a lifetime and a half since then."

"Sure does," Peeta agreed. "Honestly, it feels like a hundred years since he smashed that poor boy from Ten with the brick."

"We're not even twenty. How could we even imagine what a hundred years feels like?" Katniss asked, curious. "Honestly, I barely watched these Games. I know, I know, they're recent… but really, why bother when our pair were the first two to die? I kept my eyes shut as long as I could get away with when mandatory viewing was on."

"I tried that too," Peeta said. "I wouldn't say you missed much, but Claudius had a field day commentating on this one. He seemed really attached to Magnus from the very start."

"Bias I guess," Katniss trailed off. "…I know now that careers were just as much pawns as everybody else. Hopefully Magnus made it out of the war safely."

"Hopefully," Peeta agreed. "We'll find out in a minute or two."

The pair held a silence for Magnus, the last of the victors from before the Games that changed everything arrived.

* * *

 **73** **rd** **Annual Hunger Games**

 **Name:** Magnus Sterlingshire

 **Gender:** Male

 **District:** 2

 **Age:** 18

 **Kills:** 6

* * *

 **THE ANNOUNCER**

Being one of the two announcers for the Hunger Games is quite simply a dream job. Caesar and I make for one truly smashing team! Sure, on paper we're about equal, but I feel like what Caesar is to interviews what I am to commentary. A man of legend. Whatever happens in the arena or the opening events I'm almost always the first to be saying something about it, unless Caesar comes up with a witty remark he just cannot hold back. Improvising has always been easy for me, and it's easier still when the tributes are fun and the person doing the announcements, _moi_ , cares about doing the job properly.

I'm basically a legend when it comes to the Capitol. Being one half the face of the Hunger Games makes it all inevitable, really. The parties, the interviews, the women, everything I could ever want in life. All it costs me is some of my time being spent commenting on teenagers in an arena. Who says all prices have to be hard to pay?

The Quarter Quell is looming very near, so obviously the Games coming right before it are under more pressure and scrutiny than normal to be a serious hit. Nobody wants a forgettable Hunger Games, whether or not they win their bet on the victor. So far the decade has been going just fine. Johanna was a surprise hit the nation has come to love and Numi really put Six back in favour. I won't deny the fact I have three signed copies of her mixtape, but honestly… can you blame me?

Today was reaping day, the opening festivals to any Hunger Games. For the most part it was pretty standard stuff overall – dashing and mighty tributes from One, admitted cannon fodder tributes from Twelve, the physically toughest outliers coming from Seven – but the real surprise came from District Two, the place that's often surprised me the least in the Games. They're always the place to find deadly and patriotic warriors, same old story every year. Granted it's a cliché and a district I simply adore, but not one anybody would call a place to find a surprise.

But yet, that's what happened when the boy was reaped. For as far back as I can remember there has always been somebody to volunteer to enter the Games – so brave and noble of them! – and in the absolute earliest Games the reaped tributes weren't really strong or anything much really. It was a different era. But when the escort trilled out the name 'Magnus Sterlingshire' I soon realised that we'd struck upon quite the bizarre situation. The odds must have been astronomical!

An absolute monster of a man mounted the stage, gazing out at his people. It became apparent very quickly that he was actually the chosen volunteer, a man whose chances to enter the Games were in jeopardy! All it would take is somebody volunteered to overrule him, just are the rules. But all he had to do was stare out at the crowd and they knew to bath the hell off. This man knew what he wanted and that was winning the Games and ending Two's unfortunate losing streak!

"That there is a tribute to watch out for," I told Caesar during the reaping recap. "Mark my words, Magnus will be a ferocious killer we'll never forget!"

I'm certain that Magnus will not let me down.

* * *

 **THE TRIBUTE**

Yep, that's me on the reaping stage. You're probably wondering how I got myself into this situation. Well, it all started eight years ago when I got forced to train as a career.

I never wanted to be a career.

I never even wanted to attend Machete Ridge, whether or not I ended up coming anywhere near entering the arena.

Honestly, all I really wanted was to work in the local pub and live a nice, quiet sort of life. The Games simply weren't for me. I'm not a killer, I'm not a monster, I'm not a _career_. So many other teens want to be, so I figured I'd just let them do their thing and keep on going with my thing. Nobody ends up worse off, aside the tributes that fail to win.

Well, turns out life just isn't that simple. I guess I shouldn't have been surprised.

Due to the losing streak going on the attendance rate of cadets at Machete Ridge was dropping by twelve percent. Oh, the horror. Ohhhhhhhh noooooooo. That's why they fell back to their old practise of going to community homes and dragging the strong prospects off to their murder school whether the youths wanted it or not.

I was only ten when some Peacekeepers dragged me and some of my friends by our necks into the vans and took us away to that damn school. I've been stuck there every day of each year, bar one week annually, ever since.

I'm so big and strong normally that trying to screw up on purpose would be an obvious ploy. They'd punish me badly for it. They shot three others for trying it and, as much as I hated the place, I hated the idea of getting a bullet in my brain even more. I became a complete and utter tank. The perfect on-paper 'walking war machine'. Olga thought I had power to match hers.

Vile women. She did this. She turned out district into the cesspit of bloodlust and murder fanatics it is now. And for what? Nine victors since she took control? I would've loved to point out how she's destroyed our district, our culture, everything we once were… but there's just no reasoning with that women. Even after all the screw-ups the Capitol has made, like the infamous Thirty First Games, she still remains a patriot. It's the best way to 'keep us all safe' or some crap like that.

Anyway, I excelled at training. I just wanted to get it over with and get out of here as quickly as possible. Too bad for me I did too well and ended up saddled with the position of tribute for the year. I tried to insist that I wasn't mentally ready for the arena, that I had no interest and was only there as a result of being forced, but Olga didn't care.

She claimed it was an honour to represent Two and be the one to end our losing streak. It would be selfish and cowardly to refuse when I'm the strongest boy we have. It was one bullshit scripted sentence after another.

That and she threatened to have me shot if I refused. Well, fine, whatever. I had assumed I could just let the boy who was second in line take my place and beat me to volunteering. It's not exactly unheard of, and if he won then nobody would care. If he died then I'm out of the reaping bowl either way.

My shitty luck got shittier when my name was the one pulled. I had thought that it was perfect, that it'd give that boy the perfect reason to step up and get me out of this thing. No chance of either of us getting any backlash at all. It's not like a reaped tribute can volunteer, even if they were supposed to volunteer. Too bad none of the boys did anything!

Olga told me on the train ride I was the strongest candidate and the others knew it. Why risk lowering the odds of our victory when we've been losing for years as it is even with training?

I wanted to scream at her, cuss her out and call her on all her decades of bullshit and cruelty then and there… but, alas, I knew I couldn't. I'd be kicked from the career alliance if I did that. Pragmatism alone held back my anger.

I had no choice but to play the Games. But I did have a choice as to how I could play them… let my bloodthirsty allies do the bulk of the nasty stuff and poison them at the end. After that, just survive and outlive whoever the last outlier might be. If it came down to it I'd probably have more water than they would.

Too bad nothing can ever be that simple. Claudius called me some kind of ferocious beast on the reaping recap… well, I'll show him! I'll show them all I'm not just some thug!

The one upside was Rhyder telling me this was similar to how his late mother became a victor. She was forced into it, was reaped and managed to stay true to who she was at heart, more or less, until she won.

Hopefully I can follow Runa's example.

* * *

 **THE ANNOUNCER**

The parade is always the place where the commentary really begins. Who could say no to some flashy chariots, flashier personalities and everybody having a great time? Some of the costumes can be a bit silly, but isn't that part of the fun?

Caesar likes to give all of the tributes some air time and attention. He's always been one of those bleeding hearts around the Capitol. Nothing wrong with that of course, but my interest always lays in the flashier and grander districts. They always have the best costumes and personalities. Simply put, it's more material for me to work with.

I mean, after so many decades, how much more can be said about the Sevens being dressed as trees?

The Ones were wonderful as always, this time dressed as crystal warriors. It's fortunate indeed that such a classy district starts off the parade each year. Can one imagine District Twelve starting it off? Bless them, they'd have no idea what to do.

As was often the case District Two stole the show this year. It's often less a contest about which district will make the best debut and moreso which tribute of the careers will pull it off. Numi last year was simply the exception to the rule. This year it was big, strong and vicious Magnus that wowed the crowd – he made it look effortless!

The war paint, the jagged spear, the tribal costume made from bones – maybe even the bones of fallen tributes, who can say for sure? – and Magnus look of pure concentration all came together to make the boy into one fearsome predator. I wouldn't like to face him in a fight, that's for sure!

The more outlying tributes all looked afraid of him and rightly so. This man, this powerful career, is sure to be our victor. If only I was allowed to make bets!

"I firmly believe that District Two's unfortunate losing streak is almost over," I had said to Caesar.

"You sound certain of that. What makes you so sure?" he'd replied, pausing from his commentary on the District Eight tributes and their jester outfits.

"Look at Magnus. Don't you see the ferocity in his eyes? The pure readiness to kill? He so composed, he doesn't need to wave or show off to get people to take him seriously," I'd exclaimed. "That there is our future champion!"

* * *

 **THE TRIBUTE**

The parade was an exercise in patience. The costume I was given, well, it's better than being naked and covered in coal dust like the Twelves were just a few years ago, but I felt like a jackass wearing the bone warrior outfit. If there was ever a time that Two needed to hire a new stylist it would be now.

I resolved to just keep my mouth shut and hope the parade would be over soon enough. I never did like being in front of lots of people at once. I guess you could say I can relate to Rook in some ways.

It ended up being a lot harder than I thought it was going to be. It was nearly impossible to not let my nerves show in front of the screaming savages. My district partner Kallaway loved every second of the parade, constantly showing off for the crowd. Me? I just used all my energy to not start shaking. I saw myself on one of the screens and it looked like I was frowning, like I had indigestion or something.

I'm not sure how I can win this thing. But win or lose, I want to still be me. I'm not going to be anything like what Olga intends for me to become. The career mould she thinks we ought to be didn't work for most of the boys who volunteered since her Games.

The worst part was how so many of the outliers were scared of me. They took one look and thought I was going to kill them. I don't know what's worse, the fact they assumed that of me when they don't even know me… or the fact I might have to, no matter how much I'd rather not.

* * *

 **THE ANNOUNCER**

I've always resented the fact I never get to hear what goes on in the training centre, even after all of these years. It remains a complete mystery to me, but I guess that's where part of the magic comes from. At least the lack of concrete facts about the happenings within the training centre means more freedom for me to make up theories on talk shows during the pre-Games events.

Caesar is always the one who reads out the training scores for the audience and I never get to hear them in advance. Apparently it's to 'prevent leaks', but I'd call it unfairness plain and simple.

As always I'd been in a fancy restaurant with friends when the scores were read. It was back to work with me the following morning and things would only get busier, so I'd made sure to make the most of the quiet evening. A huge helping of honey roasted boar ribs seemed like just the way to do it!

I was barely halfway through my meal when Caesar began to read out the scores. All around me bets were made and money changed hands. Alas, professional standards held me back from joining in. Oh the horror!

Some were quick to call it a fairly predictable year as far as scores go. High scores for One and Two. Low scores almost everywhere else with a few surprises like the Eights getting scores to match their district and the boy from Ten managing a nine.

But they were all nothing in comparison to ferocious killing machine Magnus! He alone scored an eleven. I'll never know for sure what he did to earn it, same as with any score, but I sure can imagine it. I'll bet he imagined all the murders he's so excited to commit on the other tributes and got stuck in, a sword in one hand and a massive axe in the other. He must have been as vicious as a wild animal!

"I'm telling you guys," I had said to my friends. "Magnus is going to win and might even set a new kill record. If not, he'll at least leave a trail of blood behind himself."

Not one of them disagreed with me, and rightly so!

* * *

 **THE TRIBUTE**

Training was awful, start to finish.

I'd wanted to see if I could break the mould and, just maybe, look into wilderness survival skills. I mean, with how often that plays a part in our tributes dying – including those in our losing streak! – it seemed like it'd be common sense to know how to handle myself in the wilderness of the arena. , Even my district never knows for sure what the arena might be, though I think we can at least be assured it won't be another coal mine. Not after the disaster of the Thirty First Games. But, that's still a lot of other terrains where I might starve, dehydrate or get poisoned within.

Olga wasn't having any of it, not even when I laid out the facts; we keep losing because if literally anything happens to the supplies our tributes become helpless. She just claimed I was being a selfish, ungrateful child and that the generous sponsors of the Capitol would keep Kallaway and I well supplied. I could've quit while I was ahead, but the thing about me? Calm as I try to be, when I get pissed off I really get pissed. I asked her where those sponsors were in our losing streak and during some years where the supplies ran out or became lost; the Twenty First, the Thirty First, the Forty Second, the Fifty Sixth… I could've went on, but Olga slapped me down and demanded Kallaway to remind me how to be a real tribute.

I'm honestly not sure if Olga is _that_ deeply brainwashed or just in complete denial at this point. The Capitol has messed up with their own games several times over at this point. They even cost Olga her nephew Boris thanks to poor arena construction.

Part of me wonders if Olga's instance that we follow the exact same mould year after year is part why our tributes have been losing the advantage they once had. After the bloodbath it's just… like watching the exact same person year after year, always ending up the same way as the one before.

Anyway, Kallaway did her best to obey Olga right to the letter. She practically dragged me over to the Ones, forced me to use swords and maces until my muscles were aching, had me join in with tormenting the outliers – I only joined in because I wasn't about to have three sociopaths out for my blood – and ensured I only ate bread, ramen and other such basics for lunch. Apparently a true career needs nothing more than what is basic and often comes with sponsors or inside the cornucopia.

Why did we let Olga be in charge again?

My anger built up day after day. In the morning Olga would recite various Capitol propaganda to me, throughout the day Kallaway would control my every action and refuse to let me do anything the way I wanted to and then in the evenings there would be even more propaganda. It was driving me crazy!

I got the feeling that Mercy and Rhyder wanted to help me, maybe smuggle me to another room and let me vent, but Olga never took her eyes off of me. She didn't want me 'going rogue' like they did. I retorted that most of our victors who came after Olga broke the mould and the majority of those who followed Olga's idea of what we 'should' act like ended up dead.

She punched me for that one. For an elderly woman she hits damn hard! While waiting for my private training session I could hardly think of anything but how much I hated her and what she's done to our district over the years. I was still angry when I was called it, so in the end I decided to use that anger to better my score.

My rampage fuelled by how much I hate careers, the Games, the lies they have stolen… it was deemed good enough for an eleven. I didn't see it coming and neither did Olga. She looked at me with something almost halfway to respect.

"It seems like you finally decided to listen to me. I knew you'd see the light eventually," she had said, giving a slow nod.

I just nodded and let her think whatever she wanted. My short term survival comes first and pissing her off may compromise that. I'll have all my life to tell her just how awful I think she is once I've won.

Maybe I'll still have some humanity left in that time? A guy can dream.

* * *

 **THE ANNOUNCER**

The interviews were a spectacle as always! It's Caesar's show here, not mine, but that doesn't make it any less enjoyable. Who could say no to some of the best seats in the audience and quipping about the tributes being interviewed? It's always a great night to lead into the happiest time of the year.

The highlight, obviously, was Magnus. My powerful, murderous boy did just fine! Nobody can pick out a victor like I can! There's no doubt he'll be the biggest killing machine of the decade and I for one cannot wait to see how he handles himself when he's in the thick of the fray.

The best part is that Magnus didn't even need to say much, keeping his response short, simple and to the point. His grimace said enough for us to all understand. I guess he was just wanting to get it over with quickly so he could get on with making the arena his personal kingdom!

* * *

 **THE TRIBUTE**

The interview was horrifying. I mean, what sane person would want to be interviewed in front of these colourful savages? It was even worse than the parade; this time their attention was entirely on me, not spread across the other tributes as well. I didn't trust myself to say more than a half dozen words at a time, lest I lose my nerve and look weak in front of the audience.

Weak tributes don't get sponsors and I'm gonna _need_ them thanks to Olga ensuring I couldn't' learn shit about surviving in the wild!

Luckily for me the crowd seemed to enjoy the strong, near silent sort of image I was giving off. I don't think these airheads realised how scared I was to be on that stage. I'd say I'd love to never do it again, but that'd mean I'd not get a victor interview and therefore I'd be dead.

Nerve wracking as it was, I know the worst is still to come. I'm gonna have kill people. What kind of a nation has its people be permitted to fucking kill each other? One that needs a serious change of direction.

But, what can I do to change anything? It seems all I can do is try not to die.

* * *

 **THE ANNOUNCER**

The bloodbath is always such an exciting start to any Hunger Games and this year was, as with everything else, not any sort of an exception! The blood, the frantic movements, the numerous different strategies in play and the chances for surprising deaths and for early favourites to assert just how strong they are to the nation. Even the losers have their own share in the fun going on; what is more honourable and important than being able to die in the arena for the sake of our great country?

Well, there is just one thing… getting to commentate over the events as they unfolded! It's my first chance to shine every year without having to share the spotlight with anybody else. It's me and me alone who lays down each and every word as the tributes battle it out amongst themselves. It's not as easy job; it requires fast talking, the ability to watch the entire battlefield at once, making witty remarks and clever puns at the drop of a hat and occasionally remembering each tribute's name. Apparently, in the earliest days of the Games, the commentators they had in rotation kept forgetting the names of those from Ten, Eleven and Twelve! How unprofessional!

This year's bloodbath was better than last year's was. Sure, the large number of surviving tributes made the minecart chase possible, but a measly six deaths is boring. Boring! This year had a grand total of ten and was vastly more entertaining! The way the boy from One valiantly eliminated the unpatriotic crybabies from Eleven! The skill the girl from Two showed when she used her whip to systematically remove the limbs of the visually displeasing boy from Nine! Even the Threes showed their stuff, working as one unit to gather supplies and leave the boy from Five for dead, whoa!

There's almost always a shock during the bloodbath in any good Hunger Games and this year wasn't to be an exception. The girl from One is dead! The foolish girl should have watched her back; maybe if she had the boy from Ten would've been unable smash rubble over her head! Ouch! That boy, Rind I believe, might be a contender for the crown.

Of course, nobody is a bigger contender than popular savage Magnus! He was even a good enough sport to stay on his pedestal for a few moments, perhaps letting the weaker tributes have a head start. Not that it mattered of course! He sprinted to the cornucopia in six seconds flat and rummaged for weapons, claiming a gorgeous sledgehammer for himself. The tiny boy from Twelve moved behind him, only to earn a sledgehammer to the face when Magnus turned around in a flash! Magnus looked upset, but I suppose he was just annoyed he couldn't have drawn it out or perhaps killed a more worthwhile tribute for his first kill in the Games. My poor savage!

The bloodbath was sublime from start to finish, even when Magnus prevented his district partner from cutting the girl from Seven to pieces and simply smashed her with the sledgehammer. Gore galore! Magnus pointed out that torture just means the outliers getting further away and the Others dropped it from there. Strong and smart, what a guy!

Mark my words, Magnus will go down as a true beast of a victor!

* * *

 **THE TRIBUTE**

I'm still shaking after what happened at the bloodbath. I'm not sure what the worst part was; the broken bodies of so many young tributes, the fact two of them were all my fault or that this is the sort of shit that my district things is 'honourable' and 'proves our loyalty to the Capitol'. How can destroying young lives safeguard the future when children are literally the future?

The best I could do was quickly kill the girl from Seven before Kallaway could tear her apart – she was dead either way – but the boy from twelve? I have no excuse. How the fuck could I do something like that, accident or not?! I shan't sleep tonight.

The really creepy part, at least to me, is that back in training the Ones got along so well. But now that Lustella is dead Admired has begun to act like he never knew her. He doesn't even acknowledge any bond they once had nor did he even spare her body a glance. Is he mentally blocking it all away, or did he seriously care that little about a fellow human being?

Frankly my allies are maniacs… and I've got no way to live unless I suck it up and work with them. I can't exactly spare any of the outliers when there's only one victor, but maybe if I can hold Kallaway and Admired back I may be able to keep them safe from the worst of what my allies can do.

Maybe then I may be able to look at myself in the mirror without recoiling by the time this is all over.

* * *

 **THE ANNOUNCER**

The career pack, with Magnus' leadership, make it seem so easy to track down the other tributes. Normally there's at least a slight delay until a career pack will find their first outlier, but Magnus has managed to bring them towards a grand total of three tributes! All this and the selfless warlord only claimed one kill for himself. District Two must be very proud!

Magnus seems to have this odd habit of tackling the tributes down and then knocking them out. It's a shame there's no theatrics, goofy screaming like tributes are prone to acting out… but, a kill is a kill. I suppose it's just a price to pay for the action that comes with Magnus' style of tackling his foes to the ground.

So effective was Magnus that the gamemakers decided to split up the pack for a while with some brand new creatures from the mutt labs. They really outdid themselves with the skinless dogs and the ugly bats or, as Seneca Crane insists on calling them, Groaners and Air Screamers. They sent the careers running helter and skelter!

Magnus, of course, fought them off far too easily. So easily in fact that a second wave was sent after him as a reward for his strength. I was on the edge of my seat the entire time!

Magnus collapsed in a ruined clocktower after that, covering his face. I suppose he was just tired, but that's alright. The boy has earned his rest. Tomorrow it'll be back to business and killing his way to the finish line!

* * *

 **THE TRIBUTE**

This arena is hell. It's fucking hell!

I've been doing the best I can to spare the outliers from torture and terror, but at the same time I can't let Kallway and Admired get wise to the fact I'm just not like them. I might be able to take one of them, but two at the same time? It's a fight that I'd surely end up losing.

I didn't mean to find the outliers at the rate I have been, but I reacted the same way each time. From the moment we found them their fates were sealed, but not the manner in which they would die. I figured that tackling them and knocking them unconscious was about the best thing I could do for them. At least they wouldn't be awake to see the weapons come down onto them.

Admired and Kallaway were pissed, obviously. I just told them that if they wanted to kill people so badly then they should run faster. I wasn't about to slow down for them to get the first hit on people. They interpreted it as a challenge, so it seems my cover is secure for now.

Though, if I'm lucky I won't have to see those monsters again. The mutts drove us apart and, hey, at least I don't need to feel guilty over killing monsters bred only to cause pain and suffering.

On the other hand I sure feel a lot of pain! One of the bastards bit into my shoulder. I was swiftly sponsored some medicine, but it's not kicked in yet. It's gonna be a long, painful night in the clocktower ahead of me.

Right now I'm sitting in a quiet corner, hoping that nobody can see how close to losing my mind I am. I might even cry at this rate. Just… this really sucks. It's shit! I can't do this, I can't do this…

But, I'll have to do it. It's that or die. I'm not ready to die… but I'm not ready to let go of all my humanity and everything that makes me, well… _**me**_.

I just hope Kallaway and Admired don't find anymore tributes. Nobody deserves what those maniacs would do to them.

* * *

 **THE ANNOUNCER**

A day or two of rest was all Magnus needed to get back into the game. He was working overtime to try and find more tributes. He moved much faster than his scattered allies had a chance of doing and he found somebody in the first few hours of searching. The little girl from Eight, cowering like a silly mouse in an old café.

Magnus just walked away from her, perhaps deeming her hardly worth his time. Now that there is really cold! It's honourable to die in the arena for the future of this great country, and he wouldn't even give her that much. What a savage! I love it!

But Magnus isn't just a savage, he's pragmatic and knows how to twist unspoken rules to his own benefit. He spotted his district partner sleeping in a back alley in the dead hours of the night.

He caught Rind from Ten red handed, about to bring a spear down onto her face. The pair had exchanged stares for several long moments. My heart was practically pounding!

"What do you think is gonna happen now?" Caesar asked me. "Rind's like a deer caught in headlights."

"I think District Ten will be having to wait longer to have their fifth victor I'm afraid," I'd gestured to the action on the screen. "Just look at how doomed he is, he'll be… well now, what's this?"

Magnus gave him a short nod and walked the other way. Rind seemed puzzled, but he didn't question it. He worked fast to eliminate his opponent and claim another career kill for himself.

"Damn, Magnus and Rind aren't messing around," Caesar had looked a little… strange. I really should ask him why he's acting like this, one of these days. "Do you feel like this violates that 'taboo' thing the districts have developed since the Sixty First Games? The thing where they cannot kill their district partner outside of mercy or being the last ones left?"

"I don't think," I'd replied, smirking ear to ear. "Magnus was clever. He dumped a powerful adversary to his own chances and he had Rind do the dirty work for him. His hands are free of blood and the consequences he'd normally have gotten. Besides, Rind would've probably at least given the girl from Two a concussion before Magnus could've reached him anyway."

"Just a reminder for the fans watching from their homes, her name was Kallaway Bellafrost," Caesar had added. "Interesting outlook on the matter Claudius."

Caesar really has changed over the years. I'm not sure what it is, but he's just not got his heart in the action like he used to. If he's not careful he might lose his job. All the same… being promoted to Master of Ceremonies wouldn't be a bad thing!

* * *

 **THE TRIBUTE**

I wonder if I'll even be able to show myself around Two anymore, or even outside of the victor village. I didn't exactly break the taboo per-say, but abandoning Kallaway to what I knew was her certain death isn't going to get me much support from back home.

Still, at least this way she didn't die screaming or realising she wasted her whole life. I'm fast, but not fast enough to somehow have been able to reach Rind before he bought the spear down into Kallaway's neck, or at least punched her in the throat. Nothing I could've done.

Then again, I didn't try… and I had the nerve to give him a nod. Practically an expression of approval! I think there's term for what I am, and it's what my escort would call a 'hot mess'.

I must be doing something right. I was sponsored a spear – and a letter filled with profanity from Olga – only a few hours after Kallaway's cannon fired. I guess somehow I'm still in good standing with the Capitol. Here I was thinking that I was the worst career who ever lived.

The strange part is that I hadn't minded thinking that. The idea of those bloodthirsty freaks rooting for me is more disturbing than people might think it is.

I'm such a mess. I'm starting to doubt I could fight Admired off if he came for me. He lives for violence and I don't. At least, I hope not.

* * *

 **THE ANNOUNCER**

Things change so fast in the Games that it can often be hard to keep up with it all! That was certainly the case in the arena today when the Feast was called for the final seven tributes.

It started with Several outliers running in to grab what they could, only for Admired to emerge from the Cornucopia and pin down the boy from Four. It seemed like some delightful bloody drama was sure to ensure after that, only for Magnus to intervene with a spear into the fisher boy's head. The argument over Magnus being a kill stealer versus Admired wasting time with petty torture was enough for the outliers to run off. I was so disappointed by the feast only claiming one measly life that I almost wept!

"That was a letdown!" I was about ready to cry on camera. Where was the action, the drama, the death? "A letdown of the decade!"

"Hang on Claudius," Caesar has interjected. "It's not over yet."

It was to my delight that Admired calmed down enough to suggest he and Magnus resume their alliance, pointing out that there were still four outliers left to go and none of them were exactly pitiful in combat. Magnus didn't hesitate to agree.

That's when it had all clicked. Magnus wanted to ensure there was enough cannon fodder left to justify the continuation of the original alliance. Absolutely brilliant! What a smart plan. I truly hadn't seen it coming!

The real plot twist to it all came during the night after the boy from Seven met his end to a pack of Groaners. Magnus took first watch, keeping a steely eye out for any mutts… and the moment that Admired started to snore Magnus bought his sledgehammer down onto him so damn hard that the weapon actually broke!"

"Whoa, did you see that?!" I'd leapt up from my seat, jaw slack in awe.

"I certainly did Claudius," Caesar's forcing a smile again. What's up with him? "I thought that Magnus was trying to restart the alliance."

"That was a bluff in itself. It seems that getting Admired to agree to that was merely another step to a further plan, a _trap_. He wanted Admired asleep and without a way to fight back, right at Magnus' non-existent mercy. He had all of us strung along!" I can't help but applaud. "Well played Magnus, that was genius! With just three outliers to go and all of his former allies dead I don't think there's much standing between Magnus and victor now. This bloodsoaked warlord has his eyes on the prize people!"

* * *

 **THE TRIBUTE**

I'd really wanted some water from the feast, nothing more, but seeing Admired about to butcher an innocent person forced my hand. It was easy to scare off most of the other tributes and easier still to throw my spear right where I was aiming for. Another pointless murder, but still not as slow and painful as what Admired was going to do.

Admired was pissed as shit, calling me a kill stealer. It bothered me more than he may have thought; it's true, I stole a kill and added another life's worth of blood to my own hands. That's four now. How many more is it going to be?

Admired ended up simmering out and suggesting we team up. I wanted to tell him to eat my ass and fuck off, but I just couldn't be bothered at that point. I was too tired from dehydration and all the running I'd been doing. Besides, at least he's not attacking me yet and this way I'd be able to keep an eye on him, maybe spare one of the other from a bit of torture.

My willingness to work with him lasted, say, maybe around ten minutes? The arena did something to his head and he's barely able to stop twitching or talking about murder. I think I've killed more than him, so I'm not sure if I can judge… but I will say I'm not about to 'cut off a tribute's toes, have them grow back and then cut them off again'. Admired has issues.

Well, he _had_ issues at any rate. A cannon went off late in the night – according to the anthem it was the girl from Three – and that's when I felt that I no longer needed Admired around. Why stick with somebody so unstable and risk him torturing either myself or somebody else? No changing the fact only one can live, but at least I can change how people die.

I'm not letting fingers get cut off.

I think the scariest part of it all wasn't the squishy sounds I heard when I smashed Admired's head. It was how I didn't feel much of anything for the boy who genuinely wanted to be within this arena.

I spent most of the night hunched up and shaking. What sort of monster am I turning into?

* * *

 **THE ANNOUNCER**

The finale was smashing! Simply smashing! It certainly left Rind smashed, haha!

After the boy from Eleven and the girl from Four died to the Air Screamers it came down to Magnus and Rind, and boy oh boy the battle did not disappoint whatsoever!

One moment Magnus was just walking along near a slope towards the outskirts of the abandoned city. The next moment Rind had tried to tackle him down, in hopes of catching my ferocious boy off of his guard! It cost Magnus his hammer but it wasn't enough to take him down. Oh no no no! It was simply bought out the beast within him!

Rind tried to call him a monster, like anybody would care about such accusations. He said it like it were a bad thing! Magnus didn't respond, merely trying to keep his focus on the battle. Both boys got some good hits in on each other and for a few moments Magnus almost seemed afraid. Ah, what could it be besides a clever trick to try and take his foe off of his guard?

Magnus tried to tackle Rind several times, but Rind simply would not quit. He wasn't about to get knocked out and miss out on his glorious final moments! Even after losing all of his weapons and being up against a tough rancher with a knife Magnus still had plenty of tricks up his sleeves.

Using the rubble of the ruined city was very clever indeed. A lot more acceptable than how Haymitch cheated with the forcefield some years ago. Rind never knew what hit him! But I sure did – a brick! Haha!

It was my pleasure to announce Magnus as the victor of the Games. It was a shock to me that he alone wasn't cheering over the outcome to the most glorious Games we've had in a while, but I suppose he was just tired out from all the combat he'd gotten himself into.

No matter, he'll certainly have perked up by the time the party at President Snow's manor arrives. I wonder if he'll be open to posing for a selfie with me, perhaps holding up a brick while he does so.

One can only hope!

* * *

 **THE TRIBUTE**

It's over. It's finally fucking over…

I let the brick fall from my grasp, sickened by the mere sight of the terrible object. I can't bring myself to look down at Rind's corpse. His last cries, moans and insults still ring in my head. I failed to knock him out like the rest and had to pay the price for it.

'Murderer'

'Sadist'

'Lapdog'

Insults that my district has well and truly earned. Is this what we've been rewarded for doing to other districts for years? Causing so much agony? Why the hell are other youths back home so eager to take part in this shit?

It all comes back to Olga. Baron may have been the first volunteer, but Olga is the one that glorified the Games and made it seem like such an honour. She did this. She is the one that brainwashed so many people! So many lives ended all thanks to her… but am I being a hypocrite? I added six lives to the pile of what has been taken.

I can't undo any of it… but maybe I can do my best to see if I can do anything to cause the Capitol a few issues. I'm not letting this shit go unpunished. There has to be something I can do to get them back. There has to be something I could do to cause Olga to have to face the facts – this is wrong and she's ruined our district.

I dwell on this for the entire ride back to the hovercraft.

I know already that there's a longstanding rule against mentors sponsoring their own tributes… but is there anything against them sponsoring somebody else's tribute? I wonder… perhaps if I used some of my winnings to line Haymitch's pockets next year he might be able to give his tributes a chance? He's smart, he may be able to play it off like he found some rich sponsor. It's not like forged sponsors are anything new, according to Rhyder at least.

I'd take a Twelve winning over somebody like the academy favourites, those sadistic monsters Clove and, worst of them all, _Cato_.

* * *

Katniss and Peeta ended off their silence and resumed walking down the street. They had arrived at The Golden Goose, only slightly late all things considered.

The last faces imprinted onto the Walk of Victors looked up at them from outside of the café's door.

Their own.

"I never even realised they had our faces here. Guess I should have seen it coming," Katniss muttered. "I don't like being reminded of my kills."

"Who would?" Peeta agreed. "Seems I have one there too. I guess, as it's not counting the quell, that must be when I punched Cato to the mutts… maybe we shared that kill? Or it could have been Foxface."

"Cinder," Katniss corrected. "I learnt her name the other week. May they all rest in peace."

Katniss and Peeta stood in silence for a few moments, shaking somewhat as they recalled their own Hunger Games. They both turned as one to the door leading into the café and the victor party within.

"You ready?" Peeta asked.

"Not really," Katniss replied. "But with you beside me… maybe I will be before the time comes for us to go home."

"Thanks Katniss," Peeta said, managing to smile.

The pair from Twelve entered the doors of the Golden Goose, wondering who they would see inside its walls.

* * *

So, how was that? As I've said, Magnus' canon reactions to winning the Hunger Games do not match how a career, like Cato for example, would feel upon winning. No cheering, no delight, nothing much. He didn't even look wounded, so it wasn't pain weighing him down or anything. All this considered it made sense to have a tale of a reluctant career, one who I hope ended up being an enjoyable character for us to follow. I think juxtaposing the same scenes with the viewpoints of Magnus and Claudius made for an interesting sort of chapter and Games overall? By all means, let me know what you thought of him. :)

And now… the Walk of Victors is OVER! The victor party has arrived and that means we're going to be seeing who survived the Second Rebellion. Which victors managed to make it all the way to the end, safe and sound? It's a huge list and quite a lot of content to get through, wouldn't you say? So… how about I give you guys a bit of help working it all out?

As we know from canon there are seven survivors, and nothing in this fic has done a thing to change that. So, obviously, these seven are just fine.

#37: Beetee Latier  
#50: Haymitch Abernathy  
#62: Enobaria Golding  
#70: Annie Cresta  
#71: Johanna Mason  
#74: Katniss Everdeen  
#74: Peeta Mellark

Subtract those seven from seventy five and we're left with sixty eight. From there we can further subtract the eighteen who sadly lost their lives in the Third Quarter Quell, those tragic deaths being those of:

#11: Mags Flanagan (Walked into Toxic Fog)  
#16: Woof Casino (Speared through the chest by Brutus)  
#33: Seeder Howell (Skull struck with a mace by Gloss)  
#36: Laurel Flamsteel (Stabbed in the gut with a sword by Brutus)  
#43: Tabbock Summers (Drowned by Peeta)  
#45: Chaff Mitchell (Stabbed in the chest multiple times with a serrated dagger by Brutus)  
#47: Wiress Plummer (Throat slit with a knife by Gloss)  
#48: Neon Erg (Impaled through the chest with a trident by Finnick)  
#49: Brutus Gunn (Neck broken by Peeta. Prior weakened via a poisoned shoe by Pasture)  
#53: Blight Jordan (Ran into the forcefield)  
#54: Bentley Cordory (Throat slashed with a scimitar by Cashmere)  
#56: Porsche London (Mortally wounded by monkey mutts)  
#57: Arendellian Spinner III (Caught in a tidal wave)  
#59: Pasture Gallows (Ganged up on by all four careers, with the final blow dealt with a knife by Brutus)  
#60: Cecelia Mog (Stabbed in the back with a short sword by Enobaria)  
#63: Gloss Lord (Shot in the chest with an arrow by Katniss)  
#64: Cashmere Lord (Struck in the chest with an axe by Johanna)  
#69: Skinner Alecto (Mortally wounded by The Beast. Torn apart by The Beast's claws when the monster's body fell.)

Take away eighteen from sixty eight and, of course, we're left with fifty. But we're not done yet guys! We have to take into account that canon makes it clear sixteen victors passed away before the Third Quell was ever a thing. And, what do you know, I knew this going in and made sure the fact was reflected within the story. These sixteen have moved to the great beyond.

#1: Mizar Aldjoy (Cancer. 60th Games)  
#2: Pliny Aransio (Old Age. 71st Games)  
#3: Museida Selkirk (Old Age. 70th Games)  
#4: Baron Overwhill (Old Age, 72nd Games)  
#6: Duke Saint-Rose (Took a bullet meant for Pliny while saving her from a deranged fan. 48th Games)  
#7: Runa Peace (Old age. 69th Games)  
#8: Peridot Gaudy (Old Age. 69th Games)  
#9: Fir Buzz (Old age. 74th Games)  
#12: Shunt Gaspar (Accidently poisoned by President Snow. 35th Games)  
#14: Crystal McCree (Died of natural causes - mostly a weak heart. 44th Games)  
#18: Isobel Sparks (Sniped in the head by 'The Grim' with a heavily customed bolt action sniper rifle. 38th Games)  
#22: Pi Orbit (committed suicide by electrocution. 25th Games)  
#25: Vercingetorix Carnby (Shot with a pistol by Ajax. 48th Games)  
#31: Chassis Macalister (Was dying of cancer. Went out in one last demolition derby. 72nd Games)  
#35: Librae Ogilvy ( **PRESUMED DECEASED** at sea during a vicious battle against Peacekeeper Pirates. 61st Games.)  
#41: Mascara Court (Died in a mutual takedown due to a vicious battle against The Grim. 41st Games)

So, after that bit of quick math we're left with thirty four, among whom are twelve survivors. My aide to you guys comes to an end here. It's up to you to see if you can work out who is alive! Some have been shown to die, others were at specific places at specific times. Some genuinely are a mystery. Can you work out who has managed to cheat death once more and survived to see the Capitol fall? Good luck!

#5: Honorius Perthshire  
#10: Olga Machete  
#13: Gwenith Rosebud  
#15: Bear Redfoot  
#17: Rook Valiant  
#19: Bronze Marley  
#20: Boulder Atherston  
#21: Jack Tylos  
#23: Tide Luther  
#24: Crown Martins  
#26: Stallion March  
#27: Dragon Batofel  
#28: Teff Withers  
#29: Crimson Flanders  
#30: Paige Murphy  
#32: Dollar Dettwieller  
#34: Snag Nakamura  
#38: Porter Tripp  
#39: Rhyder Overwhill  
#40: Lammy Phyronix  
#42: Spool Nylon  
#44: Platinum Twist  
#46: Mercy Gregor  
#51: Lyme Rabe  
#52: Anchor Paddock  
#55: Wattzon Holmes  
#58: Yohan Fairbane  
#61: Logger Barlow  
#65: Finnick Odair  
#66: Spud Munroe  
#67: Augustus Braun  
#68: Ron Stafford  
#72: Numi Marrolto  
#73: Magnus Sterlingshire

* * *

 **Stats**

 **District 1:** Peridot Gaudy (8th Games), Crystal McCree (14th Games), Bronze Marley (19th Games), Crown Martins (24th Games), Dollar Dettwieller (32nd Games), Mascara Court (41st Games), Platinum Twist (44th Games), Gloss Lord (63rd Games), Cashmere Lord (64th Games), Augustus Braun (67th Games)

 **District 2:** Baron Overwhill (4th Games), Runa Peace (7th Games), Olga Machete (10th Games), Rook Valiant (17th Games), Boulder Atherston (20th Games), Vercingetorix Carnby (25th Games), Dragon Batofel (27th Games), Rhyder Overwhill (39th Games), Mercy Gregor (46th Games), Brutus Gunn (49th Games), Lyme Rabe (51st Games), Enobaria Golding (62nd Games), Magnus Sterlingshire (73rd Games)

 **District 3:** Honorius Perthshire (5th Games), Pi Orbit (22nd Games), Beetee Latier (37th Games), Wiress Plummer (47th Games), Yohan Fairbane (58th Games)

 **District 4:** Museida Selkirk (3rd Games), Mags Flanagan (11th Games), Tide Luther (23rd Games), Librae Ogilvy (35th Games), Anchor Paddock (52nd Games), Finnick Odair (65th Games), Ron Stafford (68th Games), Annie Cresta (70th Games)

 **District 5:** Shunt Gaspar (12th Games), Isobel Sparks (18th Games), Crimson Flanders (29th Games), Porter Tripp (38th Games), Neon Erg (48th Games), Wattzon Holmes (55th Games), Arendellian Spinner III (57th Games)

 **District 6:** Chassis Macalister (31st Games), Bentley Corduroy (54th Games), Porsche London (56th Games), Numi Marrolto (72nd Games)

 **District 7:** Pliny Aransio (2nd Games), Fir Buzz (9th Games), Jack Tylos (21st Games), Snag Nakamura (34th Games), Blight Jordan (53rd Games), Logger Barlow (61st Games), Johanna Mason (71st Games)

 **District 8:** Woof Casino (16th Games), Paige Murphy (30th Games), Spool Nylon (42nd Games), Cecelia Mog (60th Games)

 **District 9:** Mizar Aldjoy (1st Games), Gwenith Rosebud (13th Games), Teff Withers (28th Games), Laurel Flamsteel (36th Games), Tabbock Summers (43rd Games), Trevy Vex (Escaped 55th Games)

 **District 10:** Stallion March (26th Games), Lammy Phyronix (40th Games), Pasture Gallows (59th Games), Skinner Alecto (69th Games)

 **District 11:** Bear Redfoot (15th Games), Seeder Howell (33rd Games), Chaff Mitchell (45th Games), Spud Munroe (66th Games)

 **District 12:** Duke Saint-Rose (6th Games), Haymitch Abernathy (50th Games), Katniss Everdeen (74th Games), Peeta Mellark (74th Games)


	75. The Victor Party

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Hunger Games. They belong to Suzanne Collins.

 **Note:** Here we are guys, the victor party has finally been reached - sorry for the wait! Time for us to find out who actually managed to survive all the way to the end of the story. It's been fun hearing all the guesses and theories as to who is dead and alive (and to answer why Finnick was listed amongst the possibilities of who was alive, that was just for the sake of completion heheh), but now it's time for all theorising to be put to rest and for some serious boiling truth and facts to be revealed. Ready to see if your favourite victor lived or died? Let's go!

* * *

Neither Katniss nor Peeta were entirely sure of what to expect as they entered the doors of The Golden Goose, free to pass the soldiers standing guard. Would it be a sombre atmosphere? Perhaps a hostile one? About the only thing some victors had in common was their title and there was no proof that old grudges hadn't faded.

The biggest mystery was how they would fit in amongst the survivors. Aside from Haymitch they didn't really know any of them particularly well, even those they knew to have survived. Even then, Haymitch surely had plenty of secrets and inner thoughts he'd never shared with them.

Then again, Katniss knew she'd not really been open and sharing of her own personal feelings either. Time and again she locked quite a few things away as, quite simple, she'd thought there was no other way to be.

Perhaps the party would be a solid first step towards changing that? That is, if it wasn't to end up going horribly wrong and turning into a nasty fight.

Katniss and Peeta only had to take one look around to realise this was exactly the opposite of the reality before them.

"Is that…?" Katniss trailed off.

"It is," Peeta confirmed. "…Cover our ears?"

"Got that right," Katniss agreed, softly groaning.

Life of a victor, future without a constrictor

The pain's been shorn, it's an all new dawn

Snow has melted, beaten and trampled by a crowd

The future is here, we're gonna bring it loud

It's an all new future, one without blood or decay

Having said that, here's something I gotta say

You can't deceive, you oughta receive

You can't up and leave, true love ya gotta weave

Most of all, you gotta believe!

Numi took a bow for her audience of victors, posing and making finger guns here and there. It seemed that the rebellion hadn't taken much of a physical toll on her compared to others. Barely a scratch coated her exotic skin and not a finger nor eye was even slightly out of place. But the young rapper looked tired, _so very tired_. Hiding out for weeks in a secret bunker beneath her favourite dance club in Six may have had something to do with it. War trauma may have had a _hell_ of a lot more to do with it.

"Thanks guys, you've been a great audience!" Numi tiredly smiled, getting off of the stage. "… Oh shit waddup, it's Katniss and Peeta!"

Numi quickly made her way over to the pair from Twelve to greet them, several of the other victors turning to wave or simply give the new arrivals a polite nod.

"It's good to see you guys. Took your sweet time getting here," Numi nodded in the direction of the door. "Lemme guess, you took the time to remember all of the dead victors too?"

"We did," Peeta said without hesitation. "Other than the other five Coin rounded up right after the war we had no idea who…"

"We took our time. We didn't want to miss anyone," Katniss finished. "So, um…"

Numi just giggled. "I got'cha. This is all awkward as shit isn't it?"

"Beyond awkward," Katniss agreed.

"Well, literally all of us feel like that to some degree. So, yeah, you're in the right place. One entire party of awkwardness," Numi awkwardly cleared her throat, as if proving her own point. "Take a seat my mans. Enjoy a drink. Snack table is pretty swank too."

"Maybe get yourselves a pair of earbuds before it's too late and this one starts singing again," Johanna added, a fine bottle of whisky in her hand.

"Don't lie, you loved my rapping," Numi teased, her hands upon her hips.

"Your mixtape is pure garbage," Johanna stated, dry.

"And yet you have five copies, each of which I personally signed," Numi mused, tapping a finger to her chin in exaggerated thought.

"They'll sell for shitloads," Johanna declared. "Bread boy, edible root, nice of you to show up. Alright, that's my spiel. I'm getting a drink."

Johanna left to the bar area without another word, swiftly followed by Numi. The tough women from Seven hadn't changed all that much since the previous time Katniss and Peeta had seen her. The only real difference was that her hair was finally growing back to how it had once looked. Some things would never change though; namely, her attitude.

Haymitch made his way over to Katniss and Peeta, shaking their hands. He gave both of them a warm smile, looking much the same as he had the previous day. It seemed he hadn't even had one drink yet, a personal best for him.

"Ready to meet the 'gang'?" Haymitch asked. "Or, you know, sit off to the side and watch? Nobody would mind if you wanted to do that. As you can see, a few of us are already doing that."

"I'm ready to meet everybody. I think it's been put off enough," Peeta said, managing to smile. "No better time than now to get to know everybody else."

"That's the spirit," Haymitch said, already turning to Katniss. "What about you sweetheart? You in the party spirit?"

"…Eh, I might be in a bit. Snack table is calling my name," Katniss made a beeline for the buffet.

The party began to settle and pick up where it left off after that. The atmosphere was fairly quiet and cosy, and it suited the pair from Twelve just fine when all was said and done.

Peeta sat himself down in a booth near the stage. Two women were sitting there, both pausing their conversation to give him a friendly greeting.

"It's nice to meet you Peeta," the first women said.

"Nice to see you again," the second woman, Annie, added.

"Nice to see you too Annie. Motherhood treating you well?" Peeta asked, gently smiling at the baby held in Annie's arms.

Annie seemed to have made strides towards recovery in recent times. Less random laughter, less vacant staring, less of what the Capitol had simply called madness. True enough, she was unlikely to ever truly be 'over it', but it seemed a kinder nation, a quiet home and a wonderful son had played a big role in helping her along to regain a fraction of who she used to be.

"It is. Sinbad is healthy and growing up more every day," Annie said nothing more, simply content to smile. "So, you walked down the street and saw all of the faces. Do you recognise who I'm sitting with?"

"Of course I do," Peeta reached to shake the hand of the other woman. "Platinum Twist, victor of the longest Games of them all. Nice to meet you. I, uh…"

"It's fine if you're not quite sure what to say," Platinum regarded Peeta with a soft smile. "Just being here, alive, is enough. Thank you Peeta, thank you."

"What for?" Peeta replied.

"Your role in the war. You made such a difference," Platinum's smile became slightly bigger. "More than you could ever know."

"Me? No, Katniss was the one that did everything, really. I only did what came naturally, and even then…" Peeta trailed off. "What do you mean, exactly?"

"You may not have intended it, really, but… remember when you warned Katniss of the bombing over live broadcast?" Platinum asked.

Peeta nodded. "Yeah…?"

"Every peacekeeper in the Capitol dropped everything and ran for where you'd been held. It gave me the chance to make a break for it and escape the Capitol. They'd have found me if you were even a moment slower," Platinum sniffled for a moment, her smile wavering. "It was awful, hiding out in District Six and pretending to be a homeless woman, but… I'm here thanks to you."

"I'm glad I was able to be of some help to you," Peeta faintly winced, looking down at Platinum. She was, after all, in a wheelchair and missing the lower part of her left leg. "I wish I could have saved your leg too."

"Well… at least I'm alive," Platinum let out a small chuckle. "I'll just have to make the most of it, won't I? Just like all of us are in our own ways."

Platinum had indeed lost part of her leg and a prosthetic had not yet been fitted. It had really been a fluke that had gotten her to her hiding place within Six and a further fluke that spared her from death at the hands of a vicious gang. Chassis was gone, but his team – the undefeated Hazardous Hooligans – were still very much active and had driven up just in time to save her, though not her mangled leg. Hiding out in the demolition derby arena was by no means comfortable, but it was enough to keep her under the radar.

"I have a feeling we're all going to here for each other a lot in the coming days," Peeta gently offered Platinum a hug, an offer she accepted. "So, Annie, where's Sinbad?"

"His aunt is watching him. He's getting along with her daughter, Ula, really well," Annie replied, beaming.

While Peeta continued to talk with Annie and Platinum, Katniss stood alone by the snack table. After a few bites of food she'd settled into a still stance, content to remain off to the side and just do her own thing.

She softly sighed, content.

"Hi Katniss nice to finally meet you like geez it seems like I'm always the last person to get to know anybody who is anybody in this country like for real I didn't even meet Cinna until I was fifty honestly maybe I should just get out more but I'm always so busy and sometimes Harp needs a bit of care but what can you do you know what I mean anyway glad you could make it want a bit of candy?"

Katniss could only blink, taken completely and utterly off guard by the large old man standing eagerly in front of her. He carried a tray of colourful candies and, of all things, had a kiss-the-cook apron on.

"Uh…"

Crown pulled Katniss into a tight hug. He swiftly released his hold on Katniss before she could start getting overwhelmed, but Katniss was left in a daze nonetheless.

Crown had faired well during the rebellion all things considered. Perhaps he was older, wiser and not quite such a perky optimistic as he had been when he was a young man, but he'd kept all of his limbs intact throughout the war. Any injuries he had sustained were considered mild and had managed to heal up by now. It would take a while for the nightmares to fade away, and perhaps they never would, but Crown's bravery and kindness had clearly been karmically rewarded. Hiding out in the forests near Thirteen and coincidently avoiding Coin's notice had certainly helped with this.

"Just kidding, I don't talk like that as much as I used to," Crown chuckled again. "It's great to finally meet you. We've been wanting to meet you for a while now."

"We?" Katniss managed to say, still feeling rather lost.

"The gang," Crown explained, gesturing to a pair of women who walked up either side of himself.

The first women gently shook Katniss' hand, mumbled something about her being shorter than she expected and then busied herself with the snack table.

"Harp likes you," Crown assured Katniss. "She's just not really a fan of big crowds, even crowds of friends. She gets shy."

"Very shy," Harp added, quietly piling her plate with mint humbugs. "But yes. Like you Katniss."

While not a victor Harp was nonetheless deemed an important enough figure within the rebellion to be allowed at the party. Really, she was sweet and harmless. A rare combination of things for somebody to be in a nation like Panem. She, like Crown, had managed to make it through the rebellion in one piece. It was hard for her to get the right word sout sometimes, but she was able to claim the only reason she survived was because she had Crown looking after her.

Katniss started to smile. "Here I was thinking I had trouble making myself likable."

"Anybody who can harm the Capitol is a friend of mine," the second women added, crossing her arms. She gave Katniss a grateful look. "Crimson Flanders of the Twenty Ninth Games, forever in your debt. I want the Capitol dead. Anybody who opposes them is my, as the kids say these days, 'bestie'."

"What did they do to you?" Katniss asked, shaking hands with Crimson.

Crimson looked broken. "I was the 'original Finnick'."

Katniss didn't push it after that. She knew enough to understand the rough extent of what Crimson may have suffered. Such sickening, grisly things did not do anybody any good to be dwelt upon and so Katniss awkwardly moved the topic along to asking what the three were doing now that the war was over.

"I'm probably going to go back to One and open up a candy store for the rest of my days," Crown explained, popping the cap off of a bottle of soda. "I always did like the simple life and all the sugar that came with it."

"Me too. Gonna help," Harp nibbled on one of the mint humbugs she'd claimed for herself. "Service with a smile."

"Sounds like you have it all figured out," Katniss paused for a moment, considering her words. "…Can I get a victor discount?"

Crown fondly laughed. "Katniss, darling, you get free candy for life. You were the mockingjay, it's the least I could do for you!"

"Honestly, I wish I could give you more than, say, lending a book or giving you sweets as well. I might work a few shifts with these two. I'm not sure yet," Crimson sat herself on a nearby seat and stared off towards the ceiling. "More than anything I want to reconnect with the family I've got left. Finally… finally I can tell them. I can explain all of those sex scandals. I can tell them the whole story… and Snow won't kill them if I do. I'm free… I'm free…"

Crimson repeated these words a few times, as if hardly able to believe all of this was real. She'd suffered so much over many decades and the second rebellion was no different. Aside her almost-rape and murder at Bronze's hands she'd been cut, hit with shrapnel and broken a few fingers. Most of her physical wounds had healed, but scars both physical and mental were never to heal. She still looked outwardly pretty, but to tell the truth Crimson did not give a shit. Not when it was thanks to forced Capitol surgery. It was all fake, everything to do with the Capitol was fake. Above all, it was foul and she wanted more revenge…

"Thank you Katniss," Crimson whispered. "I'm sorry… sorry about the people you didn't save. But you saved me… _**thank you**_ …"

Katniss slowly approached the older women, gently giving her a hug. She was never an expert when it came to displaying a side of warmth or care. That had always been Prim's thing, one she could show to anybody. For Crimson's sake Katniss would try to be like Prim for as long as the party would last for.

While Katniss and Peeta continued to converse with the victors they'd ended up beside Haymitch was similarly enjoying the party. With a fine drink in hand, one of a far more reasonable size than his past norm before the fateful Seventy Fourth Games, he sat himself down on an armchair off to the side of the café. He glanced at the women who sat in the seat across from his own.

"Good to see that you made it out alive," Haymitch said, offering a toast to his fellow victor. "After we got separated that night in the Capitol… I was worried, you know? Worried you didn't make it. Where were you all this time?"

Gwenith smiled. As tired as she looked there was another certain emotion in her eyes – triumph. Perhaps even pure content. She clinked her glass to Haymitch's own, soon setting it down.

"I went back to the place it all began. The place my whole 'story' began," Gwenith gazed up at the ceiling. "I went back home to District Nine to help drive out the Capitol. Seemed only reasonable given I'm… well… the only victor Nine has left."

"I figure, since you're here and all, you succeeded?" Haymitch guessed, smiling proudly. "Nice work Gwenith. Imagine, you leading a whole army of rebels. How did that feel?"

"Honestly? I had no idea how to feel," Gwenith idly swirled her glass around in her grasp. "From an 'ugly monster' nobody liked back when I was a girl… all the way to leading everybody in my district to freedom and victory. It was like something out a fairy tale."

In practise it was nothing like the magic of a fairy tale, moreso a journey laid with all the blood and gore of a story about conquest and the absolute worst of humanity. The peacekeepers had laid utter waste and death to Nine, trying to reclaim the district that produced so much of the food the Capitol needed in order to survive. It had fallen to Gwenith, after escaping the Capitol in a stolen car, to round up all able and willing rebels to take their home back. Long time rebels, normal civilians, even some incredibly brave – and unasked – children all came together to form a ragtag army. Armed with just a few guns between themselves and numerous farming tools they retook the district under Gwenith's leadership, inch by bloody and savage inch. All the while they stuck true to Gwenith's personal rule.

Do not kill. Capture them alive.

It had been hard fought every step of the way, but Gwenith proved to be every bit the leader her beloved mentor Mizar believed she could be. It only took a month, give or take a few days, before Nine was under rebel control. After that it became easy to claim some of the Capitol's technology to use against them. Nines were by no means Threes when it came to technology, but they knew enough for Gwenith to start messing with their data waves and security from afar.

Enough to weaken the Capitol's digital security enough for Beetee to finish the job from Thirteen and ensure Finnick's broadcast was able to make it onto air.

All it cost Gwenith in the end was an eye, but she hardly cared. Not when the eyepatch looked pretty nice on her, in her own words.

"You deserve to be happy Gwenith. Think you found some peace after all of this?" Haymitch asked, hopeful.

"…You know what Haymitch?" Gwenith offered a toast this time. "I think I had peace all along. From the moment I had somebody who cared about me. Mizar helped me, and he helped me to help everybody else."

"Pliny helped me too. I wouldn't call myself at peace, but that old sleepyhead did a lot for me. Enough to believe that one day I'll have peace like you do," Haymitch accepted the toast. "To our mentors."

Enobaria stood off to the side, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed. She couldn't claim that she felt like she belonged amongst these people. She never rebelled and never really believed in the stuff they did. She just liked pain, mostly giving it and occasionally getting it. Somehow that had been enough to keep her alive and, strangely enough, completely free of injury throughout the rebellion. The worst that befell here was simply being put under house arrest by the Capitol.

Still, she knew it would have been foolish to refuse to show up. Why say no to free food and, most important of all, alcohol?

"Still drinking?" a man asked as he walked up to Enobaria.

"It's the best vice Panem offers," Enobaria replied, shrugging. "Strong flavour, cheap to buy, makes everything seem great after a few gulps, what's not to like?"

"Liver damage?" the man guessed.

"I won the Games, I've survived worse," Enobaria rolled her eyes as she shoved an unopened bottle into the man's grasp. "You never were any fun Rhyder."

"No fun? Come on, you've seen my dancing haven't you?" Rhyder smirked at his fellow Two victor. "What is that if not fun?"

"Uh… traumatising?" Enobaria took another gulp of her drink. "I'm already fucked up, but your dancing something made it even worse."

"Of all the fellow victors from Two to survive…" Rhyder dramatically facepalmed. "Well, Panem never was fair. Why start being fair now?"

"If a lack of fairness keeps me alive then I see no reason to change a thing," Enobaria replied, snickering. "Be happy, you won. You got what you wanted."

"You know… I guess you're right," Rhyder leaned against the wall beside Enobaria. "No more Capitol, no more Games. No more fighting… it's over."

"Think your parents would be happy, seeing the way things went?" Enobaria asked.

"Yes," Rhyder instantly said. "Without a doubt."

Rhyder had managed to survive the chaos that unfolded within the Capitol on the night the arena was destroyed, mainly thanks to all the training and teachings of his parents over the years. It had been the ultimate test, climbing his way up the side of a building and stowing away on the underside of a hovercraft, but it was one that he has passed. Alas, the battles throughout District Two had left him walking with a permanent limp. But between that and meeting his demise like many other victors did he knew he'd gotten off lightly.

"So, did Augustus make it?" Enobaria asked. "He was with you, and I can only see eighteen people here. He fashionably late?"

Rhyder slowly shook his head. His pained exhale said it all.

"Augustus…" Rhyder wasn't able to speak for a moment. "…He saved me life. Took a shot when I got careless and didn't see the sniper. Lived long enough to see me shoot the bastard that did it. Just long enough to see how desperately I tried to help him."

Enobaria was not known for anything resembling tact and even she had the good grace to keep a brief silence.

Off to the side and seated around a table were a pair of men, each with their significant other. Conversation was soft and quiet between the couples, but certainly not without life to it. It was almost ironic, given how the topic was one of tribute towards those that had not managed to live to the end of the war.

"I'm just glad it's all over," the first man said, sounding far older than he was. "No more fearing the Capitol finding us at any given moment. It's a miracle that nobody managed to find us."

"We were overdue for some good luck," the women seated beside the man said. She laid her hand upon her husband's own. "In some way… maybe it's like an apology for what happened to…"

"…To Bloom. I know what you mean Paisley," Snag tried not hold back a small sob. He knew he'd never truly be over the horrible death of his youngest. "She would have loved this. All of us victors from different districts… just sitting down and having a nice talk."

Paisley lay against Snag, softly smiling as he put his arm around her. As painful as it was to have lost their littlest girl, at least they still had each other and the rest of their daughters. It was a relief little could compare to.

Well, the fact their eldest daughter Acre had been among those who beat Logger and left him to be eaten by wolf mutts came close.

"I'm so glad you're alive Snag," Paisley lightly snuggled against her husband. "You're the luckiest man in Panem, surviving the Games and the rebellion."

"If I was the luckiest man we'd still have Bloom," Snag gently stoked his wife's reddish hair. "But, I guess the fact we're still alive and still remembering her is luck in itself."

Snag had been able to leave the mentoring room from the moment Blight had died. From there he was given his yearly temporary cure for his cystic fibrosis, able to walk on his own two legs for a month. But this time such an ability was not spent finding sponsors or pacing in worry for his tributes. It was spent making a desperate run for the outskirts of the city.

It was said to be an image of pure wonder, Snag outrunning a peacekeeper until the full moon and hitching a ride on a train back to Seven.

After that Snag and his family had met up and, with minutes to spare before the arena was destroyed, fled deep into the forests thanks to the help of some peacekeepers who switched sides. Even after she was gone Fir's influence still bore down hard upon the peacekeepers of Seven. Quite a few among them wanted to do right by her memory… and what better way to do that than save one of her friends and that friend's family? Snag's family were under the guard of 'Fir's boys' in an ancient cottage deep in the forest up to the final days of the war, scared but ultimately safe.

"So, where did you go after you finished crying over poor Aren? You still didn't explain that part," a lanky brunette man said to his husband seated beside him. "Ten? Eleven? …Two? Come on Wattzon, tell me"

"You could guess all day and still not get it Clarkson," Wattzon replied with a shake of his head. "I went back to where it all began."

"So, Five? Seriously Watt, you shouldn't keep a man waiting," Clarkson shook his head, mostly playful. "Rude. Very rude."

"Uh huh, sure," Wattzon gave Clarkson a light shove. "No, I was back where my 'adventure' began. I was in Arendellian's arena."

"…Say that?" Clarkson looked lost. "Mind going into a bit more detail?"

"He means that I showed him where all the magic happens," a younger man added, leaning over Clarkson's shoulder. "Trevy Vex, youngest victor and best of the victor sof the Fifty Fifth Games, nice to meet you."

Clarkson scratched his head. "Alright, I'm missing something here. Tell me what's going on?"

"I was with District Fourteen," Wattzon said with a chuckle. "I spent so long looking after Arendellian… in the end, it seems she was looking after me just the same."

Due to how much of a disaster the Fifty Seventh Games had been the Capitol never opened them to the public. The frozen arena was left to gather dust and snow for the rest of eternity, a blemish on the Capitol's claim of a spotless record. President Snow refused to acknowledge it or have a single person watching over the mistake of an arena.

It made it a perfect place for Trevy and his own little gang of rebels to hide out in complete secret for years after he escaped the Games. It made an even better place to hide while the war went on. Wattzon had been there the whole time and, having been properly equipped by the group calling themselves District Fourteen, learned to love the frozen wasteland. It was a nice and peaceful place to wait for the dust to settle on the outside world and be free of President Snow. Of course, it didn't exactly help his ongoing worries about Clarkson.

Many hours had been spent in the exact same cave where he had been sent to gently retrieve Arendellian over a decade prior. He missed his little sister.

He liked to imagine her spirit, and that of Aaron as well, was what kept his luck going and prevented his gang from being found.

Off in the quietest part of the café two other victors were in the midst of playing an intense game of chess against each other. One man gave not a single emotion away as he surveyed the chess board. The other was shaking and trembling like a leaf as he considered the options available to himself.

"…Checkmate!" the squeaky voiced man said, moving his bishop a few paces to the right.

"Bugger!" the stoic man cursed, suddenly not quite so stoic anymore. "I had no idea you had such a talent for chess Spud. Where was this side of you in all the years we've known each other?"

"Probably hidden behind fear that I'd be killed if I talked too much," Spud said with a rather awkward sort of not quite laugh. "…It's strange not being afraid anymore. I… don't know how to feel about it, even after these months of peace."

"It'll take all of us some getting used to," the second man agreed. "After over seventy years of suffering it's normal for our minds to have issues with the new status quo. I only wish more of us were here to see it. Nineteen isn't the worst number, but…"

"Somebody's still not here," Spud noted, shyly glancing around the café. "Beetee, did Honorius make it?"

Beetee sadly shook his head. "He was detained and interrogated, but he never broke. In fact, he'd hidden a nightlock pill in one of his false teeth and swallowed that when Snow left him alone for a night. Apparently he wrote a letter mocking the president," Beetee wryly smirked. "Apparently Snow's anger was truly something to behold."

Spud had survived the rebellion by hiding somewhere the Capitol would never have thought to look – in their own garbage dump! Living as a scavenger amongst all the foul waste and refuse of the decedent city was as unpleasant as life got, but not a peacekeeper nor even any civilians came by at any point in time. Indeed, the only thing that came Spud's way was a rather flea ridden and vicious dog mutt.

Duke's pick axe, abandoned there many years ago, had been just the thing to kill it.

Aside malnutrition Spud had managed to make it through the war unscathed. Much like his Game sit came down to luck and hiding, but so long as he was alive what did it matter the method that Spud chose? Hiding was clearly his number one skill and he had become more than fine with this. Anchor could call him an awful victor all he wanted, but what did that say about Anchor himself when he was the one dead?

"That's a shame. I always liked Honorius. He treated me well… like an equal. Like my victory actually meant something and wasn't just given to me," Spud shook his head a little. "He'll be missed. Wait… so, Yohan…?"

"Dead," Beetee shook his head again. "His body was found in a cheap motel towards the outskirts of the Capitol. He hanged himself. Left a note saying he deserved it and not to mourn him."

"…I think I'll mourn him anyway," Spud said.

"As will I," Beetee agreed with a nod.

Beetee was much the same as he had been since the rebellion came to an end. Completely brilliant, dedicated to a bright and prosperous future for the nation and, sadly, still unable to walk due to his injuries. Being in close contact with Snag had made dealing with this a lot easier than it otherwise would have been. He was working hard around the clock to keep standards of technology moving forwards and it was deemed to only be a matter of time before he would regain his ability to walk. It was, quite literally, a matter of taking things one step at a time.

By the bar stood a plump women and a lean man, both quietly exchanging pleasant words as they sipped from their cheap drinks. Both had the odd scar or two on their face and hints of heavy trauma in their expressions, but one thing stood out as more obvious than any other sort of feeling.

The mutual gazes of true love. But then, when had Lammy and Spool looked at one another in any other sort of way? Some things just couldn't be quelled by the Capitol and the love between the charismatic boy from Eight and anxious girl from Ten was one of those things.

"You know what the best thing is about the Capitol being overthrown? Spool asked, finishing off his drink.

"No more dead children nor any fear of executions?" Lammy asked. "The freedom and fairness we can now enjoy? The fact that everything we went through was worth it?"

"…I was going to say the fact we can see each other all year round now instead of just during Games season, but your ideas seem better," Spool remarked. "Guess I'll just agree with you."

"Cheeky," Lammy chuckled, leaning on Spool slightly. "But, you make a point too. What do you reckon we'll do now? Like… we can move in together. Nothing stopping us."

"Hmm, either polluted Eight or Ten with the smell of animals. Tough call," Spool mused, softly snickering.

"Oh, shove off," Lammy playfully gave her boyfriend a push. "We could go anywhere we'd like. Maybe even One? I hear they have a nice solid gold lake."

"…Okay, how this that even possible?" Spool asked, looking genuinely puzzled.

"No idea, but it's just another reason for us to maybe find out, right?" Lammy finished off her own drink. "And, maybe after all this time, you can start going by your actual name again."

"I don't know, Tag's a pretty cool name," Spool winked playfully. "I think 'Spool' and I agreed there would be no take backs."

"I never agreed to that," Tag said, moving over to claim one of the drinks set on the bar counter. "You kinda took my name without asking."

"It was that or you'd die," Spool replied, winking. "But, it's not my style to attend a party and not cause at least some sort of a scene… oh, why not?"

Spool tapped a spoon against his glass to get everybody's attention. When all eyes were on himself he gave his fellow victors a light wave.

"Hey guys, I have an announcement to make. A bit of a real life plot twist if you will," Spool gestured to the doorway of the Golden Goose. "My name on the Walk of Victors out there? Yeah, it's wrong. I'm actually Spool Nylon and this guy here is the real Tag Nylon. We switched places in the judgement building years ago, so the Capitol always had the wrong tribute and never knew until this very moment. So yeah, now all of you know who I really am. Lammy knew who I was before it was cool. So, yeah, continue to enjoy the party."

A stunned silence was Spool's reaction. Lammy's fond facepalm and Tag's laughter was soon added to this.

Spool had always been the sort to use his words to even greater effect than a sword or his iconic crossbow. His charisma made it easy to slot himself and Numi into a peacekeeper squadron after two of their members had gotten separated during a riot. From there he'd been able to make it to District Ten and meet up with Lammy. The pair had battled hard to reach an ancient castle lost to time before the Dark Days. Undisturbed by any peacekeepers, bombings or monsters, the pair had managed to make it through the war in just about one piece. Spool's only wound came from taking a bullet for Lammy during their escape from one of the provinces within Ten, death only held at bay thanks to Spool wearing a bulletproof vest. The bruise was a small price to pay for Lammy being alive.

Lammy had played a fairly big role in ensuring she and the love of her life remained safe in their castle hideout. Reaper mutts, the same abominations later unleashed into District Two, had been sent down into Ten. A few of them had ended up travelling far enough to reach the castle. As luck would have it Lammy's traps were highly effective against the monsters. They started to attack at sunset and all of them were dead or left unable to move by midnight. Whether it was a career or a mutt, little stood a chance against the sorts of traps Lammy was capable of making.

"You sure know how to silence a crowd Spool," Lammy remarked.

"Years of practise Lammy," Spool replied, winking. "I don't think anybody is going to top that."

That was the moment when the doors of the Golden Goose opened once more and the final victor on the guest list made their entrance into the café. It was a sight that stunned all present, seeing just who had managed to scrape their way through the war and towards safety.

She was wheelchair bound and pushed along by a government worker. Her hair was pure white. She'd lost any sort of strength she once possessed. She was on moderate life support already. She looked… broken.

Olga Machete looked completely and utterly defeated.

"…Well, seems like I was wrong," Spool noted.

A few moments passed by in silence as the victors observed Olga and the former headmistress of Machete High looked back at them.

She began to weep.

* * *

Presently the nineteen victors were seated and paying tribute to those that hadn't lived to see the fall of the Capitol, regardless of where their true loyalties had laid in the end.

Katniss ended up seated right beside Olga. Having been filled in on exactly who Olga truly was and what she had done over the decades had even the tough Mockingjay feeling particularly anxious.

"Relax," Olga said in a surprisingly soft tone. "My days of fighting are over. They were over longer than I realised. If I really wanted to try anything I'd have done something already; I had the chance to."

"…What do you mean?" Katniss asked, uncertain of what else to say.

Olga just gave Katniss a bemused look. "I was roughly ten faces behind you for your entire walk. You should have looked back. But no, you left yourself wide open… but like I said, I'm past that. What's the point?"

Katniss felt a chill pass over her. Had Olga really been that close by all along? Had she truly not even noticed her?

The victors were remembering their fallen in order of district number. Much like a typical victory tour it would start with District Twelve and work down from there. Katniss and Peeta only knew of Duke in passing, merely what facts were freely circulated, but Haymitch had more to share. More stories he'd heard over the years.

"The fact is that I never ended up meeting him," Haymitch said, swirling his drink around in his hand. "But Duke was a real stand up sort of guy. Never gave up, even when he'd have had every right to. They say he even left money laying around the district for the poor to find. Maybe if I wasn't in such a bad place I could have done that as well."

"Let's not forget that he saved Pliny's life during the Forty Eighth Games. If he had more time he could have saved Vercingetorix as well," Snag added, a sad sort of smile on his face. "He didn't save a tribute, but he saved a friend in serious danger. He's got Seven's respect."

Many glasses were raised in memory of the tailor from Twelve, who so willingly gave up his life to do the right thing and save a little sleepyhead.

An action that led to Pliny mentoring Haymitch towards victor. A consequence that led to Haymitch mentoring Katniss and Peeta. A victory that led to rebellion.

"I… don't know if I really am worthy of being the 'last of my kind'. You know, last victor from Eleven," Spud took a deep breath. "I'll do my best. I survived this long for a reason… I'll make that reason doing my friends justice. Seeder and Chaff were so brave. They fully expected to die in that quell and faced it to the end, so that what we have now… we could have it at all."

"What about Bear?" Peeta asked.

"They shot him to death in the mentor control room. He was too dangerous, too powerful a rebel… too good of a person to be allowed to live long enough to get interrogated," Spud trailed off for a moment, a tear in his eye. "He started like a villain and then… he changed."

"It's all about changing and bettering ourselves in the end, isn't it?" Gwenith quietly added. "Bear… I miss him. We always… we had a 'thing' for each other, but we never acted on it. It's my biggest regret. Maybe we'll meet again. Maybe."

A silence was held for Bear and how he grew to be a far cry from the violent thug he used to be. The silence was maintained for Seeder and Chaff, the tough teacher and rule abider turned rebel who died for freedom.

"Skinner and Pasture… they were warriors. Quiet, loud, didn't matter. They were some of the fiercest fighters we ever had. I wish they were here with us now," Lammy trembled as she reflected on her deceased victors of Ten. "I'm not sure what happened to Stallion, whether he was shot or… or they did something to him in captivity. I'm not sure I want to know. I'll live my best life, to do less would just be an insult towards them."

Lammy laid her hand down onto Spool's own. "They may be gone, but I won't be alone."

"You'll never be alone," Spool assured her, letting Lammy lean against him. "All of us… if not rebels, we're more or less family. Right? Right."

"Right," Crown agreed. "I'm certainly going to miss Pasture. She always used to buy out my entire stock of gummy snakes any time we met up."

Soon enough Gwenith rose to speak, being the last living victor of District Nine.

"I think we know a lot about my fellow Nines. How they lived, how they died…" Gwenith had to pause to compose herself for a moment. "I never got along with Tabbock, but no victor should have faced the Games a second time. The rest all deserved better. Laurel shouldn't have gone back to the Games. Teff died to save myself and others, she died like a hero. And Mizar… he was the first of all of us. He did so much for our cause… he should've been here."

"Teff was so brave. She had to have known she had no chance to survive, but she so willingly got herself killed to spare the rest of us who were there," Rhyder's voice wavered for a moment. "She did her uncle proud. Honestly, everybody who chose to stay behind was brave. They knew the risks."

"Does Anchor count?" Spud asked, speaking barely above a whisper. "I don't think I'll ever fondly remember him, honestly."

"That's fair," Rhyder conceded. "It's foolish to think we'd all be fond of every single victor. Still, maybe in another world Anchor could've been better. Guess we'll never know."

"I always liked Laurel," Lammy said after a moment. "I saw a lot of her. Makes sense when you consider she and Pasture grew to be so close."

"I was only a tribute for a few days and I checked out before the Games even started," Trevy hummed thoughtfully for a moment. "In the brief time I was there I think I liked Mizar the most. Most would look at a twelve year old and give up. He never did."

Soon enough the talk moved on to the fallen victors of Eight. It took Spool a moment to regain his composure. As calm as he often acted being the last one standing of every single tribute and victor from Eight had taken a toll on him.

"It feels so weird to have outlived everybody else from Eight. I mean, I was never meant to be a tribute to begin with. I'm the irregular one. I didn't volunteer or get reaped," Spool gazed skyward, looking far beyond the ceiling. "I'll do my best to cover for them. Live on and make them proud. But…"

"But?" Lammy gently asked.

"They never really knew me. None of them knew my real name. A name may just be a name, but I never told them mine. Not really," Spool downed another drink. "It got to me sometimes, and now it'll keep getting to me. But, I'll do my best to not let it bother me too much. I owe that much to Paige and Cecelia. Woof too."

"Speaking of Woof… how did he, uh, manage so many kills in his Games?" Peeta asked after a moment of silence.

"It's not something we like to talk about. Woof was fine in his last few years, but… there were always issues surrounding him. It's not an easy thing to explain," Spool replied, his tone making it clear that was as far as he'd discuss such a topic. "Now, Paige and Cecelia… nicer women you'd be hard pressed to meet. I mean, besides Lammy. But for real, they were great. So kind, so tender, always there. Paige was a great mentor and Cecelia had a heart of… uh, whatever is next above gold I guess."

"My namesake," Platinum added, softly chuckling. "I got along with them really well. …How did Paige die? I never got told."

"Blew herself up to give Gwenith, Rhyder, Augustus and myself a chance to live. We'd be dead without her," Haymitch raised a toast in memory of the thirtieth victor, downing it swiftly. "She was a hero."

The talk moved on to District Seven and neither of the lumber district's surviving victors even said a word about Logger. Between him being the cause of Johanna's deceased family and the killer of Snag's littlest daughter there was nobody to mourn him nor give him any recognition. He would forever be remember as a coward and a traitor, nothing more. The rest, they had kinder things said about them.

"Pliny may have been quiet, but she was a lot smarter than people gave her credit for. She live done long life full of eventful happenings… well, when she was awake for them," Snag said, softly chuckling.

"She mentored me to victory and was there for Duke when he died. She's got nothing but respect from me," Haymitch added, fondly thinking about the sleepyhead who helped save his life.

"That's how I feel about Jack. Just… how much of a legend of Seven can one even be? He smuggled a taser into the arena, he made peacekeepers look stupid, he robbed banks and never got in trouble for it, he even mentored me. Twice! He was the greatest crook that Panem ever had. They gunned him down in the mentor room because he was too dangerous to keep alive and interrogate. He'd probably escaped," Johanna popped open a cold beer. "He was worthy of calling himself a 'master thief'."

"That he was," Numi agreed, giggling at the thought of Jack's crime sprees. "He even stole me a few rap CD's for my birthday last year. What a sweetheart, eh?"

"Not as sweet as Fir, but then again few were," Snag continued, smiling to himself. "I think Fir was the nicest among all of us. She just wanted to smile and make people laugh. I believe she succeeded, right into her final moments."

"Damn women nearly gave me a heart attack," Johanna muttered, shaking her head. "Though, remember Blight's reaping? That gave a few people in the Capitol a heart attack."

"Wherever Blight was a tracker jacker was never far behind," Snag agreed, unable to hide his laughter. "He always made for good company. Blight was a person most had trouble disliking."

All eyes were soon on Numi, the last victor standing from District Six. Normally she revelled in attention, but now she just looked depressed. It was with a heavy heart that she began to talk of her fallen friends.

"Chassis was a legend and always will be. I mean, winning in six hours and humiliating Orion? Bad. Fucking. Ass! He was a celebrity; a source of district pride to everybody. I mean, sure, he was a bIt crazy… but who ain't?" Numi smiled, wiping away a tear. "Porsche… I feel like people do not talk about her much. I don't see why; her network of drug dealers were great for passing rebellious plans along. She was fun when she was clean and even more fun when she was drugged. She was quite a character."

"True, she was certainly an artist," Peeta agreed. He swallowed a sudden lump in his throat. "Without her I'd be dead. She gave her life to save me."

"She always did the right thing," Numi agreed. She put on a cheeky grin. "Though, when I called her a character, I mean her habit of streaking. Heheh, joined her once or twice."

"You people from Six are crazy. Fucking crazy," Wattzon said, shaking his head.

"Guilty!" Numi replied, sticking out her tongue. "Bentley… you all know how I felt about him. You all know how much it hurt when he was gone… he was my best friend."

Numi covered her face and tried not to cry. She wasn't over Bentley's death and wouldn't be for a long time. This and her whimpers of her parents being dead and Nuvi being MIA made it clear to see just how much she was hurting. While Spool tried to comfort her the talk moved on to the fallen victors of Five.

"My district seems to always have bad luck. I mean, aside Wattzon here. Lucky boy having such a fluke victory," Crimson said, slowly shaking her head.

"Won't apologise for being alive," Wattzon said, shrugging. "I like to think it's the universe paying me back for a shitty upbringing in Five, you know?"

"Perhaps," Crimson sighed, ever so tired. "But really, we got unlucky all along. Shunt died from a poison meant for Isobel, while Isobel herself was assassinated. Nobody knows for sure who it killed her, but it was surely one of Snow's men. Porter was one of those that led rebels into the dam destruction during the war. We pulled straws, both willing to die, and she picked the long one. As for Neon and Arendellian, they just got unlucky to get reaped a second time."

"A lot of good people died," Wattzon agreed. "Porter may have been silent, but I always liked her unique brand of sass. She was a riot at parties. But… it's Arendellian I'll mist the most of all. I mean, she was… she was basically my little sister. I just wish she could have…"

Wattzon went silent. Clarkson put a comforting hand upon his shoulder. After a moment Gwenith spoke up.

"I remember Shunt. He was funny. Always a bit goofy, but it was nice. Back in those days goofiness was appreciated," Gwenith continued to lose herself in the past. "Oh, and Isobel. A karate master, a fighter… one hell of a rebel. She really helped set the earliest foundations for the rebellion. Snow must have been scared of her to have her assassinated."

"Snow was nowhere as fearless as he seemed to want the nation to believe," Annie agreed, quietly. "Neon though… he was always screaming or crying. I never got to really know him."

"I don't think anybody did," Wattzon replied. "All I know is he was a creep."

"I couldn't be in the same room as him without getting nervous," Crimson stated. "Still, even he did not deserve the quell."

Nobody disagreed with this. One time in the arena was hard enough, but to do it all again? It was horrifying beyond words. Nobody wanted to dwell upon that and so the topic shifted to remembrance of the District Four victors.

"I'm not sure I can do justice to all of them," Annie said, holding her son close. "I never knew Museida personally, but he was apparently a decent man. Very firm, but overall quite fair. I think he fell into depression over age taking away his strength. He needed a friend and the other victors did their best."

"Were he and Mags close?" Katniss asked. "They were the first victors from Four, long before the rest."

"I think they were. Mags was really affected by his death," Annie paused to gently rock Sinbad a little. "Still, she was never one who could be kept down for very long. She was always a fighter and didn't stop helping others until… until the fog…"

Annie trailed off and silence reigned for a bit. While Annie tried to compose herself the other victors began to talk about some of the other victors from Four who had come and gone over the many years of the cruel Hunger Games.

"I always did like Ron a lot. Everybody from Three did, actually," Beetee paused to wipe his glasses. "Loather had killed so many people. Tortured them. Left messages of mockery written in blood. People from home thought that Ron's savage kill of that monster was, in some ways, a relief. It gave a bit of closure seeing Loather getting what he deserved. Ron will always have the respect of Three."

"He was still alive when they came to rescue Peeta and I," Johanna said, faraway. "I heard his screams. I heard him mocking them. He didn't break under torture, no matter what they did. They killed him because he beat them. He was too strong."

A few glasses were raised in memory of Ron.

"…Anybody know how Anchor died?" Spud asked.

"I'd like to know that as well," Lammy agreed. "He always used to call me fat…"

"Ron used him as a meat shield against peacekeeper gunfire," Haymitch explained. "Son of a bitch had it coming. He was more like a peacekeeper amongst victors than anything else."

"He even betrayed his lifelong friend for the sake of winning the Games and getting rich," Annie said, shaking her head. "Shameful. Sacrificing lives just to make lots of money."

"I used to fear Tide would end up doing that as well," Rhyder said. "I guess she did in the arena, but eventually she did the right thing. The thing Anchor never did. She stayed behind to help fight the peacekeepers. I don't think she believed we'd win, but that just makes it more notable."

"I wish I could have seen more of that side of her," Annie said, forlorn. "Most of the time she was just making bet after bet. I think she really needed help to get over her obsession."

"All of us need help one way or the other," Haymitch stated, pouring out another drink. "Was she one of those who got shot, or was she…?"

"I heard from Plutarch that she was put under torture. Electric torture," Rhyder let out a pained breath. "She didn't break. Maybe she bet herself she wouldn't? Point is she didn't sell us out. Not once."

Haymitch responded by leading a toast to the deceased gambler.

"I miss Librae a lot," Spool added after a few moments. "She was a lot of fun. Spacey, but she was always a lot smarter than she looked. Take it from somebody who hid something away for decades, she was hiding a lot of her full potential."

"She always seemed like she was afraid to act smart," Gwenith mused. "Why do you think that was Tag, um, Spool? Sorry, I'm probably never going to get used to the fact you have a totally different name now."

"Technically I don't 'now'. It's more like I always did," Spool replied, winking. "Annie, what do you think? Why would Librae hide a lot about herself? She didn't switch places with the real tribute did she?"

"No, nothing like that. I never really spoke with her, but my mom did," Annie adjusted her sitting stance, letting Sinbad get comfier within her arms. "She said Librae's patents got in really big trouble for being 'too smart'. Librae played it safe by acting dumb. She only let herself be smart when she thought she'd not get busted for it."

There was another toast made, this one in loving memory of the surfer girl of hidden brains and not-so-hidden coolness.

It made sense they'd make the toast. After all, they had no idea of the truth – Librae was alive.

"That leaves Finnick… I think all of us here knew him and owe a lot of our success to him," Haymitch, again, led a toast. "He should've been here."

"He should have," Annie agreed, sniffling.

"He made life bearable, for at least a few nights," Crimson whispered, starting to shudder all over from the horrible memories. "Any time he could… offer up himself to spare me even a minute of misery he would do it. He was the bravest man who ever lived…"

"Got that right," Numi covered her face, starting to shake as well. "I'll never forget the first night I got whored out, no matter how much I want to. Without him there as well I'd have gone crazy. Maybe I already have, but he stopped it being worse."

There was not a dry eye in the café by the time the group were finished dwelling upon the youngest victor there ever was.

Soon it was Beetee's turn to speak. He took his time to consider his words, unused to being much of a spokesperson in any capacity, least of all for his fellow victors of Three.

"There are a great many things I want to say about the others from Three who won the Games… but, won feels like the wrong word. All of us lost something along the way, whether it was a family member or a part of ourselves. Some of us hid it better than others, but… we were all like broken clocks in a sense. Damaged, yet still right sometimes. Still able to think," Beetee took off his glasses, idly wiping the lenses. "I'll start with Honorius. The eldest among us by the time of the war. He still had it, right to the end."

"It?" Katniss asked. "What's 'it'."

"I guess… his wit. His nerve. His bravery. He saw a problem with the Capitol right from the start and did his best to do whatever little thing he could to cause them problems. He didn't lose himself in pain, substance abuse, becoming part of the Capitol or any of the rest of it," Beetee paused to compose himself, pained over the thoughts of his old deceased mentor. "He acted. He claimed to have been a 'snot nosed brat' when he was young, but he sure turned out to be about as far from that as it gets."

Ogla practically shrank down in her wheelchair. Shame and self-loathing was obvious for all to see, not that anybody looked her way.

"I did the opposite," she whispered. "I started bad and only got worse… Honorius was right all along. He was always right."

"He prided himself on being right," Gwenith said, a small smile upon her old face. "Some things never changed. There was always a little ego in there, but it was always well hidden behind his caring side. I heard he sacrificed so much to help Pi find some semblance of peace, even for a few minutes."

The atmosphere seemed to become darker and far more suffocating when the name of the twenty second victor was spoken. The first victor to have died, the first to have cracked when it all become too much.

"Pi suffered terribly and she will forever be missed," Beetee said, grim in the face. "All victors have suffered, even those that never seemed to realise it like Anchor or, urgh, Bronze. But Pi suffered so much that… well, it feels tricky to say she suffered the most, but she was up there. She lost her family and the Capitol treated her like a joke to laugh at, a 'sore loser'. She needed more than a friend, she needed professional help."

"Honorius did his best, didn't he?" Spud asked, quietly.

"He did. But it wasn't enough, it never could have been enough," Beetee gazed past the ceiling. "He never told me how he reacted when he was the first to find her dead body, but it doesn't take an IQ like mine to know it was awful. May she rest in peace."

The victor who won her survival, lost her family and then lost her own life was toasted, her memory deeply treasured.

"Wiress was, in many ways, my best friend over the years. I feel like I understood her in ways nobody else did, and she the same with me. Even Honorius and I couldn't grasp everything about each other, but Wiress was different," Beetee allowed himself to fondly smile over the memory of his fallen friend. "She liked to say she had a 'special brain'. She was certainly a genius, no question about it, but… she had a special heart. She was a true friend. My friend."

Beetee trailed off and, again, needed to compose himself. Peeta was the one to break the silence after that.

"I didn't know Wiress for long. Actually, I might have known her the least of everybody here, but even I saw what her obvious. Her kindness, her smarts… just how interesting she was. I think I'll forever wish I could've gotten to know her better like the rest of you," Peeta put his head into his hands. "I hear she took over her arena? She got away with rebellion… that's amazing."

"She did, until she didn't," Johanna looked off to the side. "She was alright."

When the talk came along to Yohan not many of the victors had much of anything to say. The man had been a depressed recluse for years and never formed any bonds with any of them. It was rare indeed when he would utter a word. Most of the times he did were to hiss for people to not come close to him.

Only Beetee had much to say about the once reckless rocker aside from idle comments of how Yohan was somebody the others felt bad for.

"Yohan killed his sister in the arena, for those who do not know. That is, if anybody doesn't by now," Beetee sighed. "It was an accident, a fluke, it was never supposed to happen. Yohan loved Meryl, he made that much clear to me… he never forgave himself, seeing everything that befell him from then on as his own entire fault. The most he'd ever say would be drunk rambles over how he wished he'd died in that arena and that Meryl had lived. He claimed she deserved to live far more."

"You said he killed himself?" Spud said, quietly. "In a twisted sense… maybe he got what he wanted. Maybe he'll see her again, find forgiveness… no, sorry, I'm talking stupid."

"No, I think I get what you mean," Beetee assured Spud. "I think this world offered him nothing else. Only what may, or may not, come next gave him what he wanted… if only there had been another way. Some method to help him."

The talk soon shifted to the victors of District Two. The bulk of the victors, having either not gotten along with the fallen Twos or simply rarely getting to speak to them due to the Games going on, remained silent. The stage had been ceded to Rhyder, Enobaria and Olga.

"I'll never forget mom and dad," Rhyder smiled, peaceful if perhaps a little bittersweet. "Dad couldn't have known what his choice to volunteer would do. He just wanted to keep Grandma alive. He never wanted what came afterwards."

"He had a large effect on the Games and the nation, whether he intended on it or not," Enobaria paused for a moment. "Peridot was the first 'real' career to win, but she followed Baron's example, right? Think there would even be careers if Baron didn't volunteer?"

The question hung around for a while, nobody really wanted to answer it. Could so much blood and torture have been prevented had Baron simply said one sentence less on that fateful day?

"I'd certainly not exist if dad hadn't volunteered," Rhyder said. "Mom would've been in the Games either way though. Sure, she got forced to train a little by Grandpa, but she was reaped. She didn't volunteer."

"I guess some things are inevitable. Runa was alright, not that I can claim to have really known her that well," Enobaria glanced off to the side. "We didn't talk much. Too different, I suppose."

"Runa was a good person…" Olga trembled for a moment. "She was everything I wasn't. She was happy, she didn't need much. I needed everything and I still wasn't happy. Everything's gone…"

It was, again, a moment before anybody spoke.

"Rest in peace mom," Rhyder said, softly. "Speaking of which, since Rook is not here I'm guessing he's dead? How did he die?"

Olga could keep her composure no more. She wept.

"Olga?" Rhyder moved a little closer to the oldest of the surviving victors. "What is it? What happened to Rook?"

Olga looked tormented. "I killed him."

Everybody stared in silence.

"I killed him, and yet he's the one that had the last laugh. We never got along, mainly because he saw what I was too blind to see until the arena was destroyed," Olga let the tears freely fall. "When the arena was destroyed I was on my way to the president's mansion. I figured I'd be safe there, rewarded for my loyalty. How naïve I was to not think they'd have shot me on sight. I came across Rook in a back alley, clutching all sorts of stolen documents. The sort he claimed proved how I was wrong all along, that the Capitol never cared about me nor about Two. How I'd condemned many children to death after brainwashing them."

Olga wept more.

"We tussled and, as I never leave home without a gun, I ended up shooting up. Rook just laughed, having known he'd have died soon enough anyway. He laughed and laughed in my face, telling me to look at all the documents. They'd prove everything," Olga trailed off, haunted. "His last words were to tell me he won and I had lost decades ago."

"What did the documents say…?" Rhyder asked, still rattled over knowing how Rook died.

"Was it secret shit like the stuff Finnick spoke about?" Enobaria asked.

Olga slowly shook her head. It was a while before she had any idea what to say.

"It was gamemaker files. Their thoughts, their ideas… their opinions on who should live and who should end up rigged into dying," Olga began to shake, her whole body twitching. "Almost every single tribute I trained, all of those loyal fierce warriors… they were marked for death. They were called 'boring', 'cliché', 'the same person going by a different name'. By moulding them into what I thought a victor should be I only ended up killing them!"

Olga wept louder and louder.

"Boris was never going to win, even if Chassis' hadn't destroyed the arena. He was marked to be killed later on and rank in the range of fourth to seventh. I killed my own nephew," Olga covered her face with her hands. "It's all my fault. So many deaths across every district… it was all my fault. Fuck, I didn't even known that Snow poisoned my father at the same party Orion died at. I trusted him… I trusted him!"

Rhyder and Enobaria did not know what to say. What words existed, and in what order, that could calm Olga down? It was a question they knew no answer for.

"I heard how Boulder died," Rhyder continued, for it was the only thing he could do. "He was in the Nut when it got bought down. There was nothing left of him under all of the rubble."

"Boulder was a nice guy. I never had an issue with him," Enobaria snickered to herself. "Mainly because I was always laughing at how he got dropkicked like a football that one time. Huh, maybe that's why he didn't like me much. Eh, whatever."

"He was chill. Easy-going. Our district needed more people like that," Rhyder said. "Maybe it's not too late for that. Alas, it's too late for Boulder. He was a good man."

"Veringetorix was as well," Olga whispered. "At the time I just thought he was weak. Unpatriotic... now I feel like he might have been the strongest among us all along. It's hard enough to win the Games, but losing his alliance, realising how wrong it all was decades before I did and surviving in an arena with all of those pure evil monsters? That takes a will of titanium. I miss him. I wish I could tell him how sorry I am."

"Maybe you'll have a chance to, on the other side," Rhyder said. "Vercingetorix was a nice guy. He was somebody I could freely talk to about arena trauma. None of us understood it quite like he did. He could keep a secret."

"He was alright," Enobaria said. "I mean, maybe? He died before I ever met him."

"Vercingetorix was more than alright, he was amazing," Rhyder replied.

"You know who else was?" Enobaria smirked widely. "Dragon. Craziest career to ever live and probably the strongest tribute there ever was. If he wasn't such an idiot he could've scored a twelve!"

"Remember how he once ate a thousand eggs for breakfast because Boulder told him more than a hundred is dangerous?" Rhyder laughed openly. "What a legend."

"He lived like a legend," Enobaria agreed. "I wonder if he died like a legend."

"He did."

The victors all turned to look at Clarkson. The man looked… torn. Like he wasn't really sure how to feel.

"He saved my life," Clarkson continued. "Wattzon never made it back to Five and the Capitol were coming for me. Dragon showed up and got me to safety, at the cost of his own life."

"I tried to bring him with me when the arena fell, but he was too heavy," Wattzon sighed, shamefaced. "I had to leave him in the bar."

"For my sake it's likely just as well you did," Clarkson said. "Dragon died, but he died like a legend. An airship dropped a bunch of 'reaper mutts' into Five."

"They were in Two as well," Rhyder said, shuddering. "Some ungodly mixture of cockroach and wolf."

"Yeah, they were awful," Clarkson agreed. "Only a hundred of them against Dragon, though? They didn't stand a chance. Dragon died of his wounds soon after that, but he got me to safety. He was crazy, but… he was amazing."

"Seems like the perfect way for him to die. I think he'd have been alright with that," Enobaria added. "He always did enjoy mutt killing, though probably nowhere as much as Skinner."

"Speaking of mutt killing, that's what Mercy was doing before she died," Rhyder covered his face with his hands. "Reaper mutts, lots of them. She killed most of them, but the last few… it was horrible. She could have easily escaped, but she stayed to fight."

"Why would she do that?" Spud asked. "Running from danger is a totally understandable thing to do!"

"She was protecting children," Rhyder said, simply. "The thing she had always done throughout her life, in the arena and out."

"I thought she was the worst of our victors, aside Rook," Olga whispered, her voice almost cracking. "I was wrong, she was perhaps the best amongst us."

"She could really hold her own in drinking contests, I'll give her that," Enobaria added. "But you know who was a real party animal? Brutus."

Peeta shrank down into his seat at the mention of the victor whose neck he had broken. Katniss held his hand in support.

"Brutus was tons of fun to be around. Whether he was fooling around as the life of the party, chattering about that old Gameboy thing Boulder loaned him or his volunteer work around Two… he was a good man. It's a shame nobody outside of Two really got to see that," Rhyder glanced away, distinctly uncomfortable. "Especially because he's the only reason I'm here now. He saved me."

"He volunteered for you. I remember now," Katniss lightly clapped her forehead. "How did I miss that. So, that bit about him not being able to wait to get back in the arena?"

"Just putting on a show for the cameras," Rhyder said, nodding. "He died on his own terms, more or less. Looking out for me. I just…"

Rhyder trailed off into a lost silence, stumped as to what he could say.

"What about Lyme?" Peeta asked. "She was a rebel commander during the war. How did that happen?"

"Lyme, unbelievable as this may sound, was put under hypnosis during her Games," Enobaria said, shaking her head slightly. "Sounds crazy and stupid, I know. Any time she heard a finger snap she'd become a killing machine. She never wanted to be there."

Olga wept again.

"More crimes of mine. I did what I thought was right for her and Two. I had Tabbock hypnotise her; the man would do anything for profit," Olga looked down at the floor, broken. "I only ensured she'd ruin everything I once held dear after the arena was destroyed. I hear she died in the final battle of the war, but by then everything I worked for was already gone."

Peeta only spoke after a silence had reigned for several moments. "So, if Katniss had snapped her fingers when she met Lyme…?"

"By then it wouldn't have done anything," Rhyder stated. "Lyme had herself hypnotised again to overwrite the previous commands. A finger snap would just make her even more rebellious than she already was."

"Which, to be fair, is already pretty rebellious," Enobaria added. "We didn't talk much, but Lyme was okay. More than I can say about most people. Shame she died right at the end of the war."

"Do we know who did it?" Beetee asked.

"Shit if I know," Enobaria replied, shrugging. "More than likely they ended up dead. Between the gunfights and the pods the Capitol lost fuckloads of their troops."

"And we lost plenty of ours," Rhyder finished. "I always did like Lyme. I'm noticing it's becoming something of a pattern for us to say the fallen victors deserved better. Well, I'll continue that trend. Lyme deserved better."

"You know who else deserved better? Far better than I put the poor boy through?" Olga's cheeks were now stained with tears, her aged eyes stinging from the flow. "Magnus. Our last victor. He barely even got a chance to live. I put him in that arena. I forced him to do what he did… I took away his humanity, his soul, his everything."

Olga wept and spoke no more.

"Magnus wasn't like most of the tributes before him," Rhyder said. He managed to softly smile. "But, maybe that's not such a terrible thing. He knew the Games were wrong from the start, he just… played like a really tough outlier, if that makes sense? There was no pleasure."

"Not to mention he had no choice. The only reaped victor from Two aside your mother," Haymitch noted. "He was a good kid. Took me by surprised, actually. I mean…"

"What?" Katniss asked.

"You know that burn cream you got sponsored? Yeah, it wasn't just rich Capitolites that gave me that money. Magnus gave me a portion of it as well," Haymitch knocked back his drink. "Turns out he liked you a lot more than the tribute he was supposed to mentor, Cato. Such a shame that burning hovercraft crashed onto him down in Two."

Katniss was silent, mulling over this new information. Mulling over the boy who played a role in saving her life, one she'd never even known about.

She had no idea to feel about it. At the same time one boy from Two had been eager to kill her another had desired to help her. Just how much had she missed?

At last it was time for the fallen victors from One to be remembered. Crown and Platinum had no shortage of things they wanted to say about their deceased comrades. Harp, even with not being any sort of a victor, had things she wanted to say as well.

"Peridot was nice. She always used to buy candy from me, though most of the time I'd just make her stuff for three. She'd never admit it, but she was probably the biggest chocoholic that ever lived," Crown chuckled to himself at the thought. "Even as late into her life as Finnick's Games she was practically admitted to the stuff."

"She was prim and proper, a fine first victor for us… and about the biggest dork One ever had. Of course, it was just another reason we loved her," Platinum smiled in remembrance of Peridot. "I never did get into Cat Welder like she did, but we got along very well."

"We did," Harp agreed. "Knew her long. Good friend. Crystal was even better though. Crystal…"

"You two were perfect for each other," Crown said, gently holding his friend.

"Very perfect," Harp agreed. She sniffled, but nonetheless smiled in memory of her deceased lover. "Miss her always."

"Same here," Crown agreed. "Same here. I mean, she was so much fun. We badly needed fun in a place like Panem, especially back in those early decades."

"She was the best mentor there ever was," Platinum whispered, her thoughts dwelling back on the terrible training days before her own Games began. "Without her support and kindness I'd have been killed long ago."

The Ones smiled, fondly remembering their own unique bonds with the fourteenth victor.

Their smiles turned into scowls when they thought about the victor who came next.

"Bronze was a horrible, awful person," Crown said, disgusted.

"Absolutely. He was nothing but sick in the head," Platinum agreed. "Everything he did, it was all done as a conscious choice."

"Hate him," Harp agreed.

"You guys have no idea how good it felt to be the one to end his life," Crimson whispered. "It was the greatest feeling I've had in my entire life…"

Bronze was not dwelt upon for long. He wasn't worth the strain of remembering, and what little time was wasted on him contained none of the glory or admiration the monster of a man had wanted in life. There was only contempt.

"How about Dollar?" Crown asked, starting to smile again. "She was like nobody else. A real stand out amongst One's victors you know?"

"Even more than yourself?" Platinum asked with a light giggle.

"I mean, I'm a candy maker. Is that so strange when put beside a zombie survivalist?" Crown replied, winking.

"I guess not. She had one insane Games, that's for sure. Imagine if that monster that used to be the girl from Two had actually won," Platinum pondered this for a few moments. "I've got no idea what happened to her. Does anybody else?"

A chorus of no's was Platinum's response. Nobody had seen hide nor hair of Dollar for months.

"I guess the fact she's not here means she died," Platinum seemed upset at the thought. "We didn't talk much, but it still hurts to feel that. I always admired how she, well… she never cared about status. About fitting in. About being the most popular girl. She was comfortable being the quirky oddball she was. I wish I'd been like that growing up."

"Status is everything in One, or it was anyway. It's hard for it to not get into your head," Crown said. "You gotta have thick skin to do your own thing. So, of course, her skin must have been the thickest ever."

"Are zombies real?" Harp asked, gulping.

"Only on TV," Crown assured her.

"I think Skinner killed every leftover zombie mutt years ago anyway," Lammy added.

There was a silence. The next victor on the list was Mascara Court, but what could be said about her? Nobody was unaware of just how evil and dangerous the forty first victor had been in her short life. She was a victor who was difficult to discuss, even in impolite circumstances.

Her memory was almost a taboo in and of itself.

In the end only Crown spoke about the mentally damaged victor.

"I felt bad for Mascara. I honestly never hated her. Feared, mayhaps, but never hated," Crown said, pouring himself a full glass of soda. "She was born messed up and never got help. He meltdowns and instability was deliberately worsened by her family. She never had a choice beside ending up as a maniac. I just feel pity for her."

One toast was all Mascara got, but it was more than she had ever gotten in life. Only her rampages were ever toasted to, never the girl behind them who so badly needed help.

"I feel bad for Cashmere and Gloss," Peeta said, closing his eyes again. "If I'd known then what I know now… but of course Snow ensured nobody did…but… I just…"

"There was nothing you could have done," Platinum said. "That was how things were. District against district to keep us from looking at the Capitol. The twins had a painful life, but…"

"They're at peace?" Harp timidly asked.

"We can only hope," Platinum replied. "The fact all who hurt them are either imprisoned or confirmed to be dead is a start at any rate."

After some time spent thinking over Cashmere and Gloss there was but a single victor left to pay tribute towards. One who lived just long enough to do the right thing in the end.

"Augustus could have been another Bronze. In fact, he probably would have taken such a thing as a compliment when he won," Platinum, again, managed a small smile. "He learnt to be better than that in time. He learnt _he_ was better than that. By the time of the quell the idea of being like Bronze probably scared him."

"He really came through for me the night the arena went down," Rhyder added. "He really had my back. The title 'cavalier career' suited him in the end."

"I remember how he used to be obsessed with mentoring a victor, even more than I ever was," Haymitch recalled.

"At first it was all about glory and record breaking," Platinum replied. "But after a few years, most of all when his niece died, it was just to save an innocent child."

"…Who was his niece?" Katniss asked, a bad feeling coming over her.

"Glimmer," was all Platinum said in response.

Katniss didn't make a sound.

* * *

Several hours went by until the daylight outside of the café had turned into a dying sunset. It wouldn't be long until it was time for the victors to return home, or at least check into a hotel for the night.

For a while there had been nothing but story telling going on. Stories of the victors both alive and dead, stories of decades worth of friendships and conflicts. Stories of a harsher era that seemed to be over at last

Haymitch was midway through recounting his legendary drinking contest against Chaff, Pasture, Ron, Blight and Porsche when the door opened. The guards on duty permitted the new guest entry into the building.

President Paylor's sudden appearance was a shock to all present for the party. Not one among them had been informed that the nation's new leader was to be there.

"Good evening all," Paylor began. "Have you been enjoying the party?"

Paylor continued without waiting for a response. She sighed, as if she was pained just to be there. Indeed, each step she took seemed to require quite a lot of effort. Never had the president looked so defeated and disappointed, though from what or in who nobody could say for sure.

"I so badly wish I was here to say 'can I join in with whatever activity you're putting on', but… I'm here on business. Business of national security," Paylor turned to glance at the guards by the door. "Seal it off. Nobody gets in or out for the next hour at least."

The guards saluted and headed off to fulfil their task. Paylor turned back to the small crowd of victors, struggling to get the words out.

She really didn't want to do this. But, what choice did she have?

The power was out of her hands. Being president didn't change reality.

"What's going on Paylor?" Haymitch asked.

Paylor was silent for several long moments.

"The districts are still angry. I don't know how nobody saw this coming," Paylor put a hand over her face. "But… the fact the Capitol is still alive, that its citizens are still going about their lives, many as though nothing actually happened… it's not sitting well with people."

Paylor began to pace back and forth.

"On average there have been anywhere from five to ten murders a week, all against Capitol citizens. The districts are furious, they're not happy that the Capitol is just 'getting away with it'. They want revenge and are taking it into their own hands to get it. If this doesn't stop then before long it'll just be more war and chaos. The fighting will never end," Paylor ceased her pacing. "We can't just kill everybody in the Capitol, of course. That's insane."

"Got that right," Peeta agreed. "So, do you have a plan? …Wait… no… no!"

Paylor looked tormented.

"It might be the only way to stop hundreds and hundreds of acts of vigilante justice from coming to pass, each one taking lives," Paylor gazed over the nineteen victors. "That is why you were all called here today. There are no other victors left within Panem's borders beside the nineteen of you. You are officially all who remain. With every last one of you now present…"

Paylor sighed again.

"We're going to have a revote. A continuation of Coin's proposal. Should there be a Hunger Games with Capitol children? It might be enough to stop even further bloodshed over the next few decades. We trade twenty three lives for hundreds of all ages," Paylor couldn't keep her gaze on the victors. "Nobody can abstain. You can vote yes or no, majority rules. By all means, take your time if you would like to. I don't feel ready for this either, but circumstances have pushed my hand."

A few moments passed as the victors sat in a completely stunned silence. A Capitol Games. A final brutal bloody contest, with the children of those who had tormented them for decades. It was yes or no. It was just one of two words.

It was entirely their own choice.

"No!" Peeta spoke before anybody else. "That's insane! I said no when Coin said it and I'll say no here and now. This is wrong, that's all there is to it. It's crazy and wrong!"

"Too right," Annie agreed. "This won't accomplish anything, it'll only hurt even more people. Nobody deserves the arena and Finnick would never have wanted this."

"They're right," Katniss said, firmly nodding. "I only agreed last time to lower Coin's guard. But this time? My answer is no. Prim wouldn't have wanted this. Not in a million years."

Katniss' response was a broken sort of laughter. She turned, watching Crimson until the older women finally quietened down.

"Are you mad? Like… are you actually mad? Do you not remember what these savages did? What they cheered over and put us through?" Crimson clenched her jaw for a moment. "Yes. Yes. A hundred times yes. They deserve to suffer for what they have done. Even if they didn't 'buy' me, they sure as hell loved to cheer over the deaths of our kids. Throw them to the wolves, let them see how 'fun' it _really_ is. I'll never forgive them."

There was a silence for a few moments, no sounds other than Crimson's strained breathing.

"Well said," Johanna remarked, slowly clapping. "Same as last time, yes. Let them enjoy their own game. They killed my family. I have no shits to give, sorry not sorry."

"Frankly I just want to see some blood," Enobaria purred, already more eager than she had been all day. "Let them have it."

Everybody was silent once again, nobody really wanting to be the next one to speak. Paylor quietly state that the vote was three a side, thirteen votes to go.

"Just saying, if I had a vote I'd say yes," Trevy shrugged at those around him. "They would've done it forever. What's once when compared to that? Both sides killed people in the war, so we're already 'just like them'. This is just one final battle."

"I'd vote no," Harp looked uncharacteristically firm. "No means no!"

"Well, I have a vote and I feel the same way Harp does. This will only deepen the divide. Losing ourselves to revenge will only make things worse," Beetee shook his head. "Absolutely not, there are other ways and we can find them together."

"Well, I think Trevy has a point," Wattzon replied. He sighed, but soon hardened his resolve. "It's just once. Besides, this might keep all my Capitol friends safe from vigilante attacks. All of them are out of reaping age and have no children in the reaping either. I can vote yes for their safety and not have to feel too guilty. Just as much as I already was; I can handle that much."

"This is crazy," Peeta whispered, starting to shake.

Katniss gently held Peeta close to herself, gazing around at the victors who had yet to cast their votes. She hoped beyond hope they'd make the right choice and say no. But, she couldn't tell them what the right choice was.

When all was said and done, was it about right and wrong?

"Four a side, eleven votes to go," Paylor stated.

"My parents would never agree to something like this. It'd be an insult to their memory to agree to something like this… they raised me better than that. You can count me the hell out because I'm saying no," Rhyder gave a firm thumbs down. "This might restart the cycle and I'm in the business of ending it."

Snag was silent. He glanced at Paisley, as if looking into her mind. Paisley did much the same for several eternal seconds. Snag sighed, raising his hand to get attention over to himself.

"Because of the Capitol and the 'game' they loved so very much, I never got to raise Bloom. She was killed before she could really live at all. A parent scored has only one answer to give," Snag took a deep breath. "Yes. For Bloom's death and how the audience either laughed over it or merely got upset they lost a bet. That's my final answer."

"Mine too," Platinum agreed with a firm nod. "Those days of isolation, I'd give anything to forget them… but, I never will. I'll make sure they don't forget what they did to me… and more importantly what they did to Spinel. She was forced into a Games she never should have entered. My baby girl… for her, I say yes."

"Six to five in favour of having the Games," Paylor said.

"Hang on… guys… everybody stop!" Spool yelled above the sudden chatter. "Here's a better idea, why don't we just get whoever is left of the gamemakers and Snow's ministers so they can get put in the arena? They of all people deserve it the most, am I even wrong?"

"That… might actually work," Lammy agreed.

Paylor's sudden frown did not give anybody much reassurance.

"They have all either been killed or are awaiting their turn to be thrown into Snow's old woodchipper within the next three days," Paylor replied. "At any rate there aren't enough of them for a Hunger Games."

"Then my vote is no. I'm not doing this to children," Spool crossed his arms firmly. "Absolutely not."

"Nice one bro," Tag said, fist bumping his twin.

"We stand at six to six," Paylor continued. "Seven votes left."

"I said I was with Katniss to the end," Haymitch began. "…But, this is my own choice. My previous vote was for much the same as hers was – lower Coin's guard. Without that shit hanging over my head… just once?"

Paylor nodded.

"And this is in an attempt to prevent even further bloodshed?" Haymitch continued. "Twenty three compared to hundreds, maybe thousands one day?"

Paylor nodded a second time.

"It's sick, it's cruel… but our nation is going to be that way, except worse, if we just sit back and coast on by. With that in mind… yes," Haymitch concluded his statement by knocking back a drink.

Katniss and Peeta had difficulty looking Haymitch's way for several moments.

"Well, my vote is gonna have to be no because like guys they're just children and I'd rather not have anything in common with the old regime because holy cow they were assholes and I'm not an asshole just a friendly candy maker like seriously there must be a better way so my answer is no no no!" Crown paused to take a breath. "Sorry about that… the heat of the moment just got me talking, you know?"

"I understand," Gwenith assured Crown. "The Games are cruel like nothing else. They're nothing short of pure evil. Evil will not safeguard the future. Kindness and love will. I'll do as I know Mizar would have and vote no. You could never get me to agree to this, ever."

"Eight to seven in favour of having no Games," Paylor said. "Four votes left."

"My vote is gonna be yes," Spud gulped hard. "Most of these people are still blind to what they did and just how awful things were. They think nothing has changed aside who is in charge. Let's educate them…"

"Bentley would never have wanted this," Numi wiped away a few tears. "…He was always better than I am, and that's not changed even now. My friends, my family… they're all gone. The Capitol took all of them away from me. Bentley and Porsche, mom and dad, Herbie and Tamora… Nuvi is still missing and she might be dead for all I know. They took a lot from me, so I'll take something from them… yes."

"No, just… no!" Lammy stood up, stunned by what she was seeing. "Please guys, there are other ways to get payback and not kill children! Come on, let's no be so hasty here. I know revenge can be tempting, I'm tempted too after all the children who died in the Games and all the slaughter in ten during the war. But… that's just not me. That's not who I am. I can't say yes in good conscience, not when so many innocents will die. No."

"Right on Lammy," Spool said, gently taking Lammy's hand as she sat down.

Everybody was silent for several long moments. As one the victors and Paylor turned towards the sole person who had not yet cast their vote. The one person who had not said a word, far too deep in their mind to have time for things like talking.

"…Olga, the decision is yours," Paylor said, seeming relieved. "The vote is deadlocked. Nine have said yes. Nine have said no. Your vote is the only one that remains… it's all up to you now. Should we have a Capitol Games, or should we not?"

Olga weakly raised her head. Only shame and self-loathing was on her face. A wrinkled, miserable wreck was all that remained of the long dead proud and strong patriot.

"Everything I loved is dead. Everyone I cared about died for no reason all because of me. All that I worked so hard to build and safeguard has been destroyed. Frankly I would be fine to enter the arena and face my punishment. A monster like me deserves nothing else, not when I was so blind and caused so much suffering," Olga wiped a tear away. "But… it was the Capitol that brainwashed me and aided me in doing the same to others. As much as I lack any excuse, so too do they. They knew the pain they caused from the start and revelled in it. I knew the pain I paused, but remained blind to how… pointless it all was. How it was only about torture, not justice."

Olga sighed.

"I'm not sure if this is torture or justice. Maybe both… maybe neither? I'm too old and used up to know much of anything anymore," Olga paused for a moment. "Either way, I've killed enough people. But, if I do nothing then even more will die. I can't stop killing, it seems… but if my final act is to lower the eventual body count and punish the system that started the whole damn thing, then I am alright with that."

Olga, for the briefest of moments, had a flash of her old firmness.

"Yes."

Nobody spoke for a long time after that. It was Paylor who ended up having to break the silence and somehow speak over her own horror.

"…That settles it then," Paylor said, trying not to give any emotions away. "With a total of ten votes over nine, it appears majority rules and the Capitol Games shall happen after all. One final Hunger Games and it'll be over at last. I'll make the announcement in the near future and we'll get to work on that. Maybe after that we'll finally have peace."

Paylor made her way to the doors. She paused, glancing back.

"The nineteen of you victors will each mentor one of the tributes. We'll find people to fill in the five empty mentor slots in due course. Until then, farewell. Enjoy the rest of the party."

Paylor took her leave and the room was left in a state of stunned and uneasy silence. Some victors were horrified. Some looked practically gleeful. Gwenith actually cried.

Only Katniss spoke.

"What have we done?"

* * *

Thought I was just gonna end this story with a simple victor party and the survivors just having a nice time bonding and trying to move on from the past? Think again! I always make sure to end of a story in a way at least slightly unexpected. Either that or completely chaotic, haha! I never said the victor party was going to be the epilogue, and while all victors on the walk of victors had their stories told, did I ever outright say Magnus was the last one we would ever hear the story of? Nope!

So yeah, Capitol Games are gonna be a thing, and we still have one more victor to meet. One you might even know of if you paid very close attention in a certain prior chapter. As this fic is stated to take place between the end of the Mockingjay Rebellion and the epilogue years in the future, well, I saw a bit of leeway to squeeze in a Capitol Games as, hey, is it reeeeeeeeally confirmed it's quite so impossible? Well, either way, stay tuned for our final victor…

Hope you guys overall liked the reveal of who managed to survive the second rebellion. Any shocks here, or was it an expected line-up? Some may not have had their fates outright revealed, but be assured, once we get to the actual epilogue there will be no stone left unturned. But such an ending is not here yet, so I'll see you all in the next chapter.

* * *

 **VOTES**

 **YES - 10**

#10: Olga Machete (Finally sees just what she did to District Two and what the Capitol has done to the Districts and humanity itself. Voting to punish those who brainwashed is her first step to atonement)  
#29: Crimson Flanders (The Capitol bought her body and essentially raped her for decades. She wants them all to die and thinks one Games is nowhere close to enough punishment)  
#34: Snag Nakamura (The Capitol had Bloom reaped and horrifically killed. That is unforgivable; Logger may have done it, but they essentially 'provided the knife'. The punishment fits the crime)  
#44: Platinum Twist (The Capitol had her daughter forced into the arena and killed horribly, and the only reaction was cheering. They ought to feel that sort of pain to understand what it's like)  
#50: Haymitch Abernathy (Pure pragmatism. This might stop the vigilante attacks and murders. It's still awful, but 23 is less awful than potentially having dozens of deaths to deal with)  
#55: Wattzon Holmes (Wants to punish the remnants of Snow's regime and stop long term potential harm against his Capitol friends, all of whom are aged out of the reaping)  
#62: Enobaria Golding (Simply wants to see some blood and destruction. Claims that, had he been able to open his eyes a bit like she did, Brutus would've been in favour of it)  
#66: Spud Munroe (Wants to force the Capitol to face the reality and the terror of what they've forced so many poor district children into)  
#71: Johanna Mason (The Capitol killed her family, tortured her and committed so many atrocities. No reason it's not justified to make them suffer for it.)  
#72: Numi Marrolto (The Capitol killed Herbie, Bentley, Tamora, her parents and possibly Nuvi, alongside 20% of D6. As much as she believes in Bentley's pacifism message, she just cannot let that go)

 **NO – 9**

#13: Gwenith Rosebud (Believes the Games are wrong, plain and simple. Nobody should suffer them. Kindness and love must always be chosen above hatred and sadism)  
#24: Crown Martins (Under no circumstances will he hurt a child, no matter who that child is nor how evil their family)  
#37: Beetee Latier (The Games would cause unrest and fresh waves of anger. A further schism would only worsen things)  
#39: Rhyder Overwhill (His parents opposed the Games and he does too. He won't risk restarting the cycle)  
#40: Lammy Phyronix (Tempted due to what the Peacekeepers did to the children of Ten, but would rather have Peacekeepers in the arena. Can't bring herself to vote in children)  
#42: Spool Nylon (Would rather send the Gamemakers and Ministers into the arena. Not children, that's not the game he prefers to play)  
#70: Annie Cresta (Finnick would not have wanted it and either way it's nothing short of sadism)  
#74: Katniss Everdeen (Prim would never have wanted this, and her love for Prim outweighs hatred for the Capitol)  
#74: Peeta Mellark (As before, he thinks it's crazy. More bloodshed is not something he feels can solve anything, and even if it does it's not worth the deaths)

 **STRANDED IN HAWAII**

#35: Librae Ogilvy (Would have voted no, feeling it's uncool and frankly unjust in cruelty)

* * *

 **Stats**

 **District 1:** Peridot Gaudy (8th Games), Crystal McCree (14th Games), Bronze Marley (19th Games), Crown Martins (24th Games), Dollar Dettwieller (32nd Games), Mascara Court (41st Games), Platinum Twist (44th Games), Gloss Lord (63rd Games), Cashmere Lord (64th Games), Augustus Braun (67th Games)

 **District 2:** Baron Overwhill (4th Games), Runa Peace (7th Games), Olga Machete (10th Games), Rook Valiant (17th Games), Boulder Atherston (20th Games), Vercingetorix Carnby (25th Games), Dragon Batofel (27th Games), Rhyder Overwhill (39th Games), Mercy Gregor (46th Games), Brutus Gunn (49th Games), Lyme Rabe (51st Games), Enobaria Golding (62nd Games), Magnus Sterlingshire (73rd Games)

 **District 3:** Honorius Perthshire (5th Games), Pi Orbit (22nd Games), Beetee Latier (37th Games), Wiress Plummer (47th Games), Yohan Fairbane (58th Games)

 **District 4:** Museida Selkirk (3rd Games), Mags Flanagan (11th Games), Tide Luther (23rd Games), Librae Ogilvy (35th Games), Anchor Paddock (52nd Games), Finnick Odair (65th Games), Ron Stafford (68th Games), Annie Cresta (70th Games)

 **District 5:** Shunt Gaspar (12th Games), Isobel Sparks (18th Games), Crimson Flanders (29th Games), Porter Tripp (38th Games), Neon Erg (48th Games), Wattzon Holmes (55th Games), Arendellian Spinner III (57th Games)

 **District 6:** Chassis Macalister (31st Games), Bentley Corduroy (54th Games), Porsche London (56th Games), Numi Marrolto (72nd Games)

 **District 7:** Pliny Aransio (2nd Games), Fir Buzz (9th Games), Jack Tylos (21st Games), Snag Nakamura (34th Games), Blight Jordan (53rd Games), Logger Barlow (61st Games), Johanna Mason (71st Games)

 **District 8:** Woof Casino (16th Games), Paige Murphy (30th Games), Spool Nylon (42nd Games), Cecelia Mog (60th Games)

 **District 9:** Mizar Aldjoy (1st Games), Gwenith Rosebud (13th Games), Teff Withers (28th Games), Laurel Flamsteel (36th Games), Tabbock Summers (43rd Games), Trevy Vex (Escaped 55th Games)

 **District 10:** Stallion March (26th Games), Lammy Phyronix (40th Games), Pasture Gallows (59th Games), Skinner Alecto (69th Games)

 **District 11:** Bear Redfoot (15th Games), Seeder Howell (33rd Games), Chaff Mitchell (45th Games), Spud Munroe (66th Games)

 **District 12:** Duke Saint-Rose (6th Games), Haymitch Abernathy (50th Games), Katniss Everdeen (74th Games), Peeta Mellark (74th Games)

 **The Capitol:** N/A


	76. Cupid Sol

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Hunger Games. They belong to Suzanne Collins.

 **Note:** Here we are, the final Hunger Games of the story. After all the tears, pain, murder and insane twists in-story year after in-story year it's come to this, the grand finale. The ultimate form of penance for the Capitol. …Too dramatic? Perhaps! Hope you guys enjoy this one, it was a lot of fun to work on, what with how the Games unfolded and exploring the Capitol and District reactions to what is going on.

To answer a question of reviewer Red Sting, the youngest 14 year old victor prior to Finnick was Snag, who turned 14 on reaping day (opposed to Finnick being 14 when he won after sixteen days in the arena). However, Rhyder's Games were slightly delayed for reasons already delved into within his chapter, which allowed for his 14th birthday to happen before he entered the arena and won. If not for that Rhyder would hold the title for youngest victor as his birthday is roughly two weeks and a bit after reaping day.

And with that, what more can I say beside my hope you enjoy the chapter and that you like the final victor? Let's get this show on the road!

* * *

 **The Final Games: Capitol Punishment**

 **Name:** Cupid Sol

 **Gender:** Male

 **District:** N/A - Capitol

 **Age:** 13

 **Kills:** 0

* * *

Cupid's life had fallen apart.

It all began on the night where Finnick had revealed the disgusting secrets of so many people within the city he had grown up in. Mercifully, none of the secrets were those of Cupid or his own family. They were, after all, fairly basic and had nothing to hide. They were beneath notice for the most part.

But tell that to an angry mob out for blood and criminal mischief and see how far you get. The mayhem and chaos of the night inevitably made its way to Cupid's area of the grand city and waste was laid to it. Gunshots, fire and merciless destruction.

By the time dawn arrived Cupid was the only member of his family left. It hadn't even taken five minutes for his parents to die in the inferno as their house was set ablaze by arsonists. Cupid honestly had no idea how he had survived the carnage.

As he lay hunched up and sobbing for his dead family under the rising sun he rather thought it may have been better if he hadn't survived. Living with this agony was even worse than being dead.

"I want my mom…" Cupid practically choked on his own tears. "Why… why…"

Why indeed. Like many in the Capitol he simply had no idea of the way things truly were. It didn't occur to Cupid that Panem wasn't a great country, but rather a horrific dystopia.

Perhaps this could be understood when one learnt he had grown up knowing nothing aside kindness of his family, social acceptance at his school and a complete adoration of romance.

Romance especially.

Cupid, much like his namesake, was fixated on love. More than anything he loved love when it happened on TV. He'd had his own vlog show all about romance and shipping since he was ten and had a few thousand subscribers, all of whom were just as eager to talk about couples as he was.

Couples in the Hunger Games were no exception to this.

Cupid never did much like the killing part of the Games. He preferred the romances that would emerge in the arena. Sure, most of them ended in horrible tragedy, but wasn't it fun to just focus on all the nice stuff until then and simply imagine it might not end up like that?

He thought it was fun at any rate.

For a long time his celebrity romance fixations were Baron and Runa as well as Spool and Lammy. Victor pairings were about as real as romance got! Many a video was made about them with undying support sent their way.

But it was the Star Crossed lovers who really gave Cupid something to fanboy over.

The love! The drama! The loyalty! The tenderness! The literally everything!

…The way they led a rebellion that destroyed all he held dear.

Cupid cast away such thoughts. Try as he might to keep hope alive in himself, how could he? He was all alone and left to rot.

It occurred to him that many a tribute felt this way over the years. The veil over his eyes had been lifted in that moment. Was the love real? Perhaps. Were the tears and wails of despair real?

Painfully so.

The rebellion came and went, ending with President Paylor coming in to clean up the mess. No more Games, much fairer distribution of resources, a bright future for all who had lived to see the dawn of the next era.

Cupid got shoved into an orphanage with several others who had lost everything. If nothing else he wasn't alone. If nothing else he had a few friends who understood his pain.

Checking back on his vlog was just too much. The memories of a kinder era, one where he had a perfect life and hundreds of thousands in the districts suffered horrifically every day was too much for him to bare.

He felt guilt for how he'd never considered the feelings of those outside the Capitol and assumed that all was well. He'd assumed they were as happy as he was, content to live with love and friendship.

Naïve musings of a life he'd never get back.

Even so, his idealism didn't die out completely. Painful as his own situation was, at least the deaths had stopped. Well, they were not quite so frequent now at any rate. At least there was peace. At least people were moving on.

The deaths that befell citizens under the blanket of night were terrifying, but at least his orphan friends were safe. They weren't alone.

At least the districts hadn't wiped them all out in revenge.

It was midway through June when Cupid realised that, no, it wasn't over. The full extent of the Capitol's long overdue punishment was only just getting started. He'd been walking through the streets, returning to the orphanage with some buns he'd bought from the bakery when it happened.

A live transmission across the entire nation.

Cupid watched as the screen showed President Paylor exited her mansion – about seven miles to his left he reckoned – and walked up to a podium. She surveyed the crowd that had shown up to watch her with an expression Cupid didn't quite understand.

It was like guilt, but without any of the emotions you'd see in a guilty person. She was clearly holding a lot back. But, what was this all about?

Cupid got the terrifying answer he needed not even five minutes later.

"The districts only wanted a better life during the first rebellion. Better pay, better living conditions… a chance to life at all. Only cruel and slave-like conditions led to the rebellion. It could have all been avoided if the Capitol had simply helped their citizens. Instead, they decided to make the nation suffer further and began to kill their children year after year as a 'punishment'," Paylor had said. "Therefore, with the tables now turned, a punishment will be given in turn to the Capitol. A final penance before the fighting can, at last, be moved past."

Paylor paused for a moment.

"The nineteen surviving victors took a vote, one that came back ten to nine," Paylor had, again, paused. "…The vote was for one final Hunger Games using the children of the Capitol."

There had, of course, been rioting and screaming from the very start. Shouts of how it was unfair, how this was pure evil, how the districts had already won and now they were just rubbing it in. Eventually Paylor had sounded an airhorn into a microphone to get everybody to quieten down.

"You cheered over the Hunger Games for decades. You laughed and cooed when our children were murdered. You bet on their lives like it was a game. No matter how many children died, or how awful their deaths were, you only cared if you lost a bet. It was intended to be an endless punishment," Paylor paused for breath. "This is but a single Hunger Games. Once and then never again. This way the vigilante attacks against you might stop. It is, quite simply, trading twenty three lives to spare many more. Reaping day will be July 1st. More rules and regulations on the Games dubbed as 'Capitol Punishment' will soon follow."

The transmission ended and Cupid dropped to his knees, his heart threatening to burst right out of its chest. The chance existed for him to enter the arena.

The arena.

Either die horribly or become a killer. Both options were equally terrifying for Cupid to consider.

So lost in his fear and woe was he that he didn't even notice the panic of the terrifying crowd all around him, all of them finally realising just how evil the Hunger Games were.

Alas, such a realisation was far too late now. They showed no mercy prior and would receive none now.

Cupid sobbed.

* * *

Spool sighed.

He voted no to these damn Games, why did he have to have any part in this trainwreck?

Reaping day had arrived, and everything had been set up. Pens for all eligible children to stand in, whether willingly or forced. A stage and chairs for the victors to sit on as the ceremony went by. A finalised list of rules for how the Games were going to go. The show was ready to start.

"This is sick," Spool muttered to Lammy, his girlfriend seated in the chair beside his own.

"Mmmhmmm," she agreed, flinching at she looked at the crowd. "It's only going to get worse."

Spool didn't disagree. If nothing else, he could take comfort in the fact this was the very last Hunger Games that would ever happen. After this the decades of war and Games would finally end.

All he had to do was mentor some poor kid to victory.

The rules would be revealed on a need-to-know basic and for the most part the reaping would be the same as it always had been. An escort – one who managed to survive the rebellion – would reap the tributes, but this time volunteers were banned. There would be no escape if picked.

As the Capitol did not have tesserae the replacement was hat extra slips would be added containing a tribute's name if they were closer related to somebody who had harmed the districts or been deep into the old regime.

Notable was that twelve of the tributes, six boys and six girls, had been forcefully volunteered. They'd been closely related to some truly vile monsters, alive and dead, of the old regime that their fates were sealed from the start. There would be no mercy shown to them, but per the norm of a so-called soft fix they'd be given an equal chance to win when the gong went off in the arena.

As for the other twelve, they would be reaped normally to ensure every single Capitol child and family had to face the terror of a reaping. Two reaping bowls were set up, one for girls and one for boys, as always… but there was now a third reaping bowl added. When each tribute was reaped a slip would then be taken from the third reaping bowl. This would determine who would mentor each tribute.

As there were twenty four tributes and only nineteen victors the remaining five spots had been filled with a few back-ups, of sorts. Gale was deemed to be deep enough involved with the rebellion to be given a spot and Trevy, having been a tribute even if not for the actual Games, had earned another. The next two mentor spots went to Harp and Acre, Snag's eldest daughter, for their helpful aid in the rebellion.

In a situation Spool almost found laughable the final spot had gone to the real Chuff Mitchell who had been the intended male tribute for the Forty Fifth Games. Chuff wanted no damn part in this shit, but his objections were overruled.

In the end Spool cared nothing for the rules of this fiasco. He just wanted it over as quickly as possible. Screw everybody that had voted yes. Screw them for having valid reasons he had difficulty in hating.

At this point the twelve tributes related to the worst of the old regime's monsters had been forced to the stage and assigned their mentors. If nothing else there were some interesting combinations going on.

Pietro Dully, seventeen years old, son of one of the arena designers. A complete Hunger Games fanboy who had always bragged that he wanted to be a tribute, he fell to pieces and literally shit his pants when he was put on the stage. Johanna was to be his mentor and quickly edged away from the stinking once-fanboy.

Goldie Mendez, eighteen years old, the daughter of Richford Mendez, the owner of the biggest Games related gambling casino in the nation. Flirty and more than willing to use sex appeal to save her own skin, she'd ended up mentored by Platinum.

Malvin Sleek, fifteen years old, son of one of the heavy betters on the Games. Morbidly obese and rarely one to leave the house, he was not looking to have the best odds by any stretch of the imagination. On the other hand he would probably be the least likely to die of starvation. He was to be mentored by Crown.

Melodie Cromwell, thirteen years old, the daughter of Alissa Cromwell – a surviving small time gamemaker who ended up getting life in jail over death. Melodie was wailing and crying for her mother from the moment she was forced to the stage. Alas, her mother was not permitted to see Melodie for even a moment. Melodie was to be mentored by Spud.

Blaze Royale, eighteen years old, grandson of a man that had made several successful petitions to cut the pay of district citizens several times over. The boy hadn't said a word since the day had started, too overcome with complete shock that this was happening to him. _Him_! Blaze was partnered with Beetee.

Tallulah Prime, eighteen years old, was the niece of a recently woodchipper'd man who made a sport out of 'district hunting'. The tables were turned and now Tallulah, boasting a ten person body count after her first 'hunting trip', was the prey. She screeched and screamed at how this wasn't fair, how the districts had taken everything from them. Her selected mentor, Wattzon, told her to shut up.

Alvorn Wake, thirteen years old, was condemned because his mother was the living person who had bought the company of the victors the most times, all who initially outranked her now being dead. He had been born lacking a left arm and thus had been given a cybernetic prosthetic. Alas, the rules of these Games meant the fake arm was quickly confiscated, leaving Alvorn with only a few tattoos to boast about. His odds were grim, but his mentor Olga would do her best regardless.

Acacia Gnome, fourteen years old, was a girl with an avid love of photography and had gotten several of her photos published already. Too bad being related to one of the top mutt breeders had condemned her to the arena. The only upside to the weeping girl's current situation was how she'd been paired with Gwenith.

Miles Templesmith, sixteen years old, the nephew of Claudius Templesmith. As arrogant and smug as his uncle, he was furious at his situation… but, he believed he had a chance. It was more than some others believed. The arrogant boy was drawn to be mentored by Gale.

Hellania Saint, sixteen years old, daughter of one of Snow's personal assistants. She saw the districts as nothing but vermin and these Games only further made her see them as a pack of savages. Pointing out the hypocrisy given her own joy of seeing them die in the Games was met with a snarl. She had ended up being paired with Chuff.

Stinn Bone, eighteen years old, son of a sadistic peacekeeper captain. Just as sadistic as his dad, this boy had no fear of entering the Games. He believed simple observation of his father's example and beating up a few restrained prisoners was all of the training he needed. He was paired with Rhyder, not that he believed he needed a mentor.

Rhonda Snow, twelve years old, the granddaughter of President Snow. She was the youngest of all tributes thus far and had done little but helplessly cry. The poor thing was to be mentored by Crimson who had zero intent to do anything but mock the girl.

Spool looked over the twelve tributes so far with a disgraced look on his face. Was this what they had fought for? Was this really what their rebellion and desire for freedom had led to?

Why hadn't Paylor just held off throwing the ministers and gamemakers into the woodchipper and hurled them to the arena instead? Spool wished they lived in such a timeline.

"With half of the roster filled by our… brave volunteers…" the escort choked on her own nerves and bile. "…It's time for the second half of the reaping to begin. When your name is called please make your way to the stage. There will be no volunteers permitted."

Spool watched as, one by one, the tributes are selected and mount the stage. Most of them are in tears or scream of the injustice going on. They are ignored. One by one the remaining mentors sitting around him rise when their own names are called. As with the first twelve there are some interesting match-ups going on, none of them what Spool would call good.

Kids didn't belong in arenas even if they or their families were awful people.

The girls were reaped first.

Ponty Lumiere, fourteen years old, had been a gambling addict prior to the rebellion and bet on the Games every year. She was a close friend of Goldie and her gambling had gotten her just enough extra slips in the bowl to condemn her to the arena. She was to be mentored by Katniss.

Zunilla Norvus, eighteen years old, had been a spoiled brat who had always gotten whatever she wanted whenever she wanted it. The rebellion had taken all of that away and reduced her to a constantly crying and snarling shell. She was paired up with Acre.

Nix Fowler, eighteen years old, was addicted to body modification surgeries. At the time of the reaping she had gotten cat eyes, dragon scales, a snake tongue, purple hair and a fairly useless pair of angel wings on her back. The random drawing had given her Enobaria as a mentor.

Sawyer Nocella, sixteen years old, was one child among six. All of them were obsessed with mutts, especially the ones that were known for painfully devouring tributes. Now that such a thing could potentially happen to her she'd lost all the love she once had for the horrific monsters. She was to be mentored by Harp.

Romanita Toriff, sixteen years old, had wanted to be a surgeon. Specifically, the sort that gave the Capitol citizens the crazy body modifications they loved so very much. She'd tried to perform this on herself, working from a textbook, and ended up blinding herself. The rebellion that began the next day prevented this from being fixed, and now it was too late. She wept as her name was called, knowing that without sight she was almost certain to die. She was set to be mentored through the nightmare by Lammy.

Belle Singh, thirteen years old, had wanted to be a rapper. She wasn't exactly talented at this, granted, but she had plenty of enthusiasm for it. Being reaped and likely to die had crushed her pep. Numi was declared her mentor and, while psyched that Belle shared her passion for rap, felt this to be an additional punishment for straying from Bentley's pacifistic message. She'd do her best for the kid.

The boys were reaped second.

Cnaeus Raspberry, eighteen years old, a vandal from the seedier side of the once-great city. With a disregard for authority and a history of thuggish behaviour and actions he seemed like a boy with some sort of a chance. He was no stranger to wielding a crowbar and, anxious as he was, appeared satisfied to have Haymitch as his mentor.

Raptor Ourang, seventeen years old, had been the most popular boy in his school. He couldn't comprehend that something like this had befallen him and not the losers at the bottom! Still, perhaps being the official final victor and only victor of the Capitol was to be his ultimate achievement? He was all about words, not fighting, but maybe he could learn how to throw a punch with a mentor like Peeta?

Victor Rupee, fifteen years old, ironically seemed like one of the least likely candidates for becoming his namesake. He'd been relying on prosthetic legs for the last seven years since a nasty car crash. Much like the prosthetic arm of Alvorn these had also been confiscated. If he was to win he would have to think like Snag. Perhaps such a thing could come true, given Snag coincidentally was his mentor.

Leamus Jump, sixteen years old, was an expert with all things mechanical. His family were hovercraft pilots by trade, a thing practically in their blood. He expected a life of being up in the air, not a short existence where he'd lay dead in the dirt. He'd win these Games out of pure spite alone for the new government! Perhaps his chosen mentor, Annie, would be able to help him with that?

An incident occurred when the second to last tribute, Jeiss Donroy, was reaped. It turned out that the purple skinned fifteen year old was the escort's own son. The women screamed and screamed, wailing for mercy. Pleading for her boy to be spared. Shrieking how this was all wrong.

She was held at gunpoint and demanded to pick a paper slip from the mentor reaping bowl. She was not permitted to cry, not when she'd gleefully done the exact same thing to district families for approximately fourteen years and sometimes outright teased the tributes during the following train rides. No sooner had the escort selected Trevy as the boy's mentor she passed out.

Everything was silent for several long moments. What would they do now? The escort wasn't coming around any time soon and there was a schedule to keep to. The crowd were going to be getting restless soon, more than they already were at any rate.

For a minute Spool sat alone, awaiting instructions on what to do. All but himself now had tributes and he was in no rush to meet the kid whose fate would be in his hands. He'd never been a particularly good mentor, only having one victor to his name and now poor Cecelia was long gone. He just wasn't ready to feel the always familiar feelings of defeat again.

"Spool?" a soldier, one from Thirteen based on the accent, repeated.

"Huh, what?" Spool said, finally paying attention.

"As you're the only mentor left there's little point taking the last slip from the mentor bowl," the soldier then pointed to the boys' reaping bowl. "Save us some time and embarrassment, could you? Pick a name?"

"What? Hell no! I didn't vote for this, get somebody else to do it. One of the people who said yes… or, hell, you do it," Spool crossed his arms, unimpressed. "No way."

Alas, Spool's own complaints were unheard. With the soldier soon forced to help his comrades quell the screaming and wailing crowd and nobody else coming to take the escort's place, it all fell to him in the end.

He alone stood before the reaping bowl.

He alone had the power to choose who would be the very last tribute to ever be reaped for the Hunger Games.

He, a man who was never supposed to be in the arena in the first place, had the power to decide how this was ended.

"What a lot of damn irony," Spool quietly said to himself. "Please be somebody badass, please be somebody built like a tank."

With a shaking arm Spool reached into the reaping bowl and quickly took out a single slip of paper. He wasn't going to draw it out and make the poor kids suffer more.

He opened the paper slip, trying to keep his nausea under control.

"Cupid Sol."

Spool felt his heart sink as a small boy made his way out of the thirteen year old boys section. He could only grimace as the skinny boy of pale skin and golden hair mounted the stage and moved to stand beside him.

"Hello Spool," Cupid whispered, his teeth practically chattering from fear. "Nice to meet you at last."

"Nice to meet you Cupid," Spool said with about as much confidence as a typical District Twelve tribute. "I'll be your mentor, and mark my words you're going to win this thing."

The two shook hands moments before Cupid and the other tributes were forcefully taken away into the president's manor to await visitors and transportation to the tribute building. Everything happened so fast and before Spool knew it the final reaping was over.

He had just enough free time to find a nearby alleyway and vomit from all the stress.

* * *

A first for the Games, the parade had been entirely skipped. It was ruled that this was something that the Capitol would enjoy and which may distract from the entire point of these Games being a punishment for their decades of cruelty and benefitting from district pain.

The tributes were unceremoniously herded into armoured trucks and taken to the tribute building, no fanfare given whatsoever. Not a single tribute spoke to each other in that time, all of them too shaken by the reality they'd found themselves in.

The most interaction that happened was Cupid gently laying a hand on Rhonda's shoulder.

Cupid bought up the rear of the pack when he and the other tributes were let out of the trucks and into the tribute building. They stood as one small crowd with armed guards all around them, no doubt looking for any excuse to start opening fire. At least, that's what Cupid believed.

It wasn't long before the twenty four mentors arrived and took their places off to the side. Following that it was practically no time at all before President Paylor arrived, taking her place on a slightly raised platform before them.

"Welcome to the final Hunger Games, dubbed 'Capitol Punishment'. I won't mince words; none of you are happy to be here and while I could claim to be unhappy this is happening, that won't change the fact it is," Paylor had to speak loudly to drown out early complaints from the tributes. "By all means, complain as much as you would like after the rules are explained."

"Rules? What rules?" Sawyer asked. "The only rules are to be the last one standing and not eat each other."

"This is messed up," Stinn hissed.

"Got that right. You savages have no right to do this to us!" Hellania screeched.

"You all took away our children for decades and had them killed. Is this really so different now that the shoe is on the other foot, so to speak?" Paylor paused to sigh. "Like I said, no interruptions."

"She has a point," Cupid mumbled. "Is it really so different? Same number of tributes, same age group… it's really just like a quell or something."

Several of the tributes eyed Cupid for a few moments, but soon their attention was back on Paylor.

"Cupid is right, at least in my opinion. For better or worse," Paylor took out a list from within her pocket. "Now, as you are all from the Capitol and thus cannot be split into district pairs, we'll be doing things a bit differently to work out which floor you and your mentors will be staying on until the Games begin."

"Do you even have an arena?" Miles asked.

"We do," Paylor replied, shortly. "Now, here's how this will work. Each of you will be put into one of twelve teams, a boy and a girl filling up both. These teams will essentially be stand-ins for the normal district numbers. The teams have already been decided entirely at random. When I call your name, come and stand beside me. You will be given your colour coded buffs – that is to say, neckerchiefs - for the training days."

Cupid watched as the other tributes were called up in pairs, each given their team number and colour that would represent them in the arena. Some teams were much stronger, and scarier, than others were.

Team One, given red buffs, consisted of Miles and Rhonda. Miles was trying to act confident and like he was indifferent, while little Rhonda hadn't stopped sobbing even for a moment. Her fate was all but sealed already.

Team Two, given orange buffs, consisted of Cnaeus and Goldie. Goldie wasted no time in trying to put on a little flirty charm with Cnaeus, but the thug seemed utterly disinterested in what Goldie was offering him. He merely folded his arms and grunted.

Team Three, given yellow buffs, consisted of Alvorn and Sawyer. Alvorn looked especially vulnerable under the stares of others with his prosthetic arm taken away while Sawyer tried to glare toughly at those around her. It was obvious both were scared shitless.

Team Four, given dark blue buffs, consisted of Victor and Tallulah. Victor looked especially helpless, forced into a wheelchair with his legs having been taken away. He looked like he was going to start crying. Tallulah, meanwhile, looked at Paylor as though she were vermin and gnashed her teeth in fury. The fight wasn't taken from her yet.

Team Five, given green buffs, consisted of Blaze and Romanita. By now the shock had left Blaze and he was started to enter anxious deep thought, as if trying to work out a plan. After a moment he began to smirk, as if hit by realisation. Romanita, meanwhile, was devoid of all hope. She could only cry, knowing that her life was already over.

Team Six, given cyan buffs, consisted of Stinn and Hellania. Stinn gazed over his competition, hardly giving much emotion away. He regarded them like how a citizen of Ten may regard typical lifestock. He was confident of his chances. Hellania, of course, was still seething and snarling. She made her contempt clear, sneering that a 'district monkey' like Paylor wasn't a real president. This mess would be sorted out soon. Alas, she was wrong.

Team Seven, given gold buffs, consisted of Raptor and Belle. Raptor put on a smile and tried to outwardly look confident and accepting of his fate. Perhaps if he were one of the few to not make such a fuss he'd get treated better? Image was everything. Belle lacked his confidence, but was nonetheless trying to put on a perky smile. Happy tributes got sponsors, right?

Team Eight, given pink buffs, consisted of Malvin and Zunilla. Malvin was so out of shape that he was out of breath by the time he'd walked over to Paylor and then off towards Crown. Running for his life was going to be a serious issue. Zunilla, meanwhile, was teary eyed and constantly muttered that this wasn't fair. The rebels took away all of her status, and now they wanted her life too? She hadn't even done anything!

Cupid stepped forth when his own name was called to fill the male slot of Team Nine. He was handed a purple buff, one he chose to wear like a bandana. He wondered if his mother would've called him dapper or smart looking. Such thoughts hurt.

He was joined in his team by Acacia, the poor girl shaking madly from her surgically added ram horns to the soles of her fluffy boots. It was all she could do to not cry. Cupid needed no prompting to gently take her hand and lead her over to where their mentors were standing.

"I've got your back, even if you don't have mine," Cupid whispered.

Acacia sniffled, but managed to nod and weakly return Cupid's offered fistbump.

The two youngsters stood silently between Spool and Gwenith, watching as the remaining six tributes were sorted into teams. The wait they had been put through and their sheer nerves were making the final quarter of the roster appear physically ill.

Cupid thought it was rather unfair for them to suffer even more. Hadn't they all had a terrible enough day?

Team Ten, given, brown buffs, consisted of Pietro and Melodie. By now Pietro had recovered from his earlier pants shitting and was trying to look confident. He'd watched every Games a dozen times, surely he could learn from example and do what the best victors had done, right? Melodie, meanwhile, had entered a panic attack and was having genuine trouble with breathing. Indeed, she ended up vomiting from stress and passing out.

Team Eleven, given white buffs, consisted of Leamus and Nix. Leamus stalked forth with furious eyes and clenched fists. He wasn't going to even try and act nice, not when he'd hardly even watched the damn Games over the years to begin with! Nix shakily made her way forwards, reaching back to try and feel her angel wings for any sense of support. She felt like she was going to follow Melodie's lead and faint.

Team Twelve, given black buffs, consisted of Jeiss and Ponty. Jeiss didn't react much, just glumsy sighing as he approached the president. He looked lost in his own thoughts, and few of them were good. Ponty paid little attention to her teammate, her gaze more drawn towards her friend Goldie. An alliance was all but certain between them. She narrowed her eyes, her spirit not broken just yet.

With all of the teams sorted out Paylor ordered the tributes to the elevators that would take them to their rooms. There was nothing more to be said.

Cupid didn't mind this. He was in no mood for talking, not when he was far too busy with running into his bedroom and burying his face against the pillows, crying his eyes out.

It briefly occurred to him this same bed had once been used by the very first victor that there ever was – Mizar Aldjoy.

Cupid hoped some of Mizar's luck may smile upon him as well, but he doubted it. He was almost certain to end up dead in the dirt.

After an hour of sobbing Cupid came to an epiphany. Was he doomed? Probably? But were the Games the very next day? No.

Even if he was done for, at least he still had time to do something nice for somebody else.

It was high time that, for the final time, he helped another couple get exactly where they should be.

* * *

Spool hadn't slept well the previous night, too overcome with the guilt that came with reaping his own tribute. He'd not wanted to, but fate had forced him into the absolute worse spot to be in. Then again, maybe it was his own fault. It had been his own choice to enter the arena prior to becoming a victor, hadn't it?

Lammy had been supportive as always, but pillow talk could only do so much. Especially when she had her own tribute to support. A tribute with even worse odds, being blind and all.

All this nasty emotion was why Spool found himself awake shortly before dawn with a mug of coffee in hand, practically slumped over the dining table. A big gulp did nothing to help and neither did a second.

Spool was about to get another mug entirely, only for Cupid to leave his bedroom at that moment and beeline his way over to the table. For a moment the middle aged man and the young boy sat across from each other, silently staring into each other's eyes.

"I'm sorry" Spool said at the exact same moment Cupid said "I want to help you."

"…You first," Spool said, setting his coffee aside. "Help me with what?"

Spool let Cupid lay out his plan. It was… so painfully innocent. Enough so that if Spool were a less hardened person he might have even shed a tear.

The boy had seemingly given up. Not only did he think he was simply too weak and young – thirteen and two months old – to win the Games, but he refused to kill another person. He refused to even cause injury or try to fight. It was _wrong_.

No, he was a pacifist and a romantic first and foremost. In his final days he had only one goal… get his favourite victor, Spool, to propose to Lammy at long last. If the best couple in the history of the nation were engaged before he died then he could leave the world without regret.

Well, not as many regrets at any rate.

"So, how about it?" Cupid asked, pouring himself some lucky charms. "We have three days of training and then interview day to pull this off. You ready to work with me here, Spool?"

"…You know, I thought I was the mentor here," Spool said, momentarily stumped.

"Why mentor a hopeless case?" Cupid asked, quickly eating a mouthful of his cereal. "I can't win. But you? You can win. Lammy's hand in marriage that is."

"…I guess I have delayed asking her. I don't think she'd say no," Spool said, mostly to himself. He shook his head quickly. "Why the interest in my love life? Why not your life in general? That's what's at risk here."

"Because I don't have a chance," Cupid replied. "And… I just don't have it in me to kill people to save myself."

"Can't, or won't?" Spool asked.

"Both, but honestly… moreso won't," Cupid glanced off to the side. "I can't justify ending lives so that mine won't. I just… I mean… is that stupid?"

"No, it's human. I mean, some may call that stupid, but I don't think it is," Spool downed a mouthful of his coffee. "Thinking of going for a pacifist victory? It's never been done before, but in theory you might be able to pull it off."

"You really think so?" Cupid asked.

"Maybe. If you're really committed to winning without any kills at all… now would be the time for it," Spool finished his mug of coffee with an unceremonious chug. "Your opposition lacks any careers at all and few of them are going to be putting up any sort of a fight. You might be able to win if you can outlive them; let hunger, thirst and infection wear them out"

Spool gave Cupid a serious look.

"Memorise everything at the survival stations. Please, do not make the same mistake hundreds of tributes before you have," Spool said, his tone grave.

"I won't," Cupid promised. "I'll do whatever you say."

"Good," Spool got up, starting to pace. "Now, if your plan is outlive them then you'll need sponsors. I'm not sure how that will work, only that it's different than the normal method. You'll need to be memorable, and I'll do my best to get some interest pulled your way."

Spool ceased his movement, noticing that Cupid had gone ridged. A cheesy sort of grin was etching its way across the young boy's face, one Spool knew from his own personal experiences to mean a plan was close at hand.

"What's the plan?" Spool asked, retaking his seat.

"Romance worked for Katniss and Peeta, it'll work for us too," Cupid said, balling his small fist in upmost seriousness.

"Uuuuuuhhh…" Spool awkwardly looked at himself and Cupid, quirking an eyebrow.

"Eep! Not that, I didn't mean that!" Cupid exclaimed. "I mean… how about you say something like 'if Cupid wins then Lammy and I will get married'? People love you guys and you didn't… uh… actually, did you-"

"We didn't vote for these Games, both of us voted no," Spool quickly added. "You know… that's not a bad idea. I mean, even if you… lost… I'd still ask her, but as they don't need to know that…"

"So long as you guys are happy and in love, I'm happy," Cupid assured his mentor. "A war just ended. We need love now, more than ever."

Spool couldn't even begin to disagree with his tribute.

Before long Gwenith joined the breakfast table and soon after her Acacia quietly sat down at well, her face stained with numerous dried tears.

Breakfast was a sombre affair, only slightly lightened when Cupid suggested he and Acacia work together. He repeated his vow of pacifism, one he would under no circumstances break, and said he had her back.

"We could at least survive the bloodbath together," Cupid said, shyly. "And… well, maybe it'll be easier if we're not all alone in the arena?"

"Well, when you put it that way…" Acacia took a deep, shaky breath. "Alright Cupid, I'm in. Let's d-d-do it."

The two tributes were soon done with breakfast and, not overly long after that, were called down to the training centre. Cupid dared to lightly smile, while Acacia seemed close to tears all over again. It wasn't like either of them were going to be able to score particularly highly or master any real skills.

Spool waited until they had left down the elevator to let out a weary sigh. Gwenith sat sown beside him, clutching her own mug of coffee in her shaking grasp. Neither mentor was in a particularly good mood.

"Their odds aren't looking good," Gwenith mumbled. "I thought we were done with this. Why did they vote yes? Why…?"

"A lot of them were badly hurt over the years," Spool said, grim. "I guess it's up to us to make sure our tributes have the best odds possible."

Spool finished his last mug of coffee and headed for the elevator.

"Where are you going?" Gwenith asked. "Sponsor duty?"

"To a degree. But first, I need to talk with Lammy," Spool replied. "Cupid gave me an idea."

* * *

Cupid stood with the rest of the tributes, listening to what the new Head Trainer was telling everybody. It was a soldier from District Five of all places that had taken the job, but she clearly knew what she was talking about. She and the dozens of trainers are individual stations all knew their crafts incredibly well.

Besides, a staff reset was needed due to all of the prior trainers being dead. Atala had been forced into the woodchipper face first and the others had followed not long afterwards.

Cupid couldn't help but feel that it was a tad messed up that the new president had inherited the woodchipper the previous two presidents had owned and was making harsh use out of it already.

"You have three days to learn as many skills as you think you will need. On the third day you will be getting the traditional private training session where you shall be scored from one to twelve," the women from Five explained. "What you learn is entirely up to you. I'll warn you now, though, if anybody is thinking of trying for a double victory by using some sort of poison… don't. It will not work, the Games would just end without a victor. The nation at large would not care."

A few of the tributes looked either helpless or annoyed at this announcement. Some plans were clearly going to have to be changed. Cupid gave Acacia a sad sort of look. One of them – probably both of them, if he were being honest – would have to die.

"As always, no fighting with each other before the Games. Arguing is fine, so long as it does not become physical," the women gestured to the training centre with a sweep of her arm. "You may begin."

The tributes were quick to split apart from each other and head off in separate directions. The stronger tributes – Stinn, Cnaeus, Raptor, Hellania and Tallulah – were quick to approach the training stations for swords and axes. The weaker tributes – Rhonda, Victor, Romanita, Malvin and Melodie – hesitated to move anywhere, either frozen in fear or sobbing in despair. The rest of the tributes slowly made their way to training stations of their own choice.

Cupid soon found himself at the edible plants training station. He sat beside the only other tribute who had come to this same training station, Miles, and paid rapt attention to everything the trainer told him.

"The basic idea is that if you aren't certain of something being safe to eat then you shouldn't attempt to," the man explained. "Granted, if you're starving and need to eat then always choose something without berries. There's approximately a forty percent lower chance of such plants being poisonous to a lethal degree."

"Is nightlock going to be in the arena?" Miles asked.

"I'm not allowed to tell you things like that. It may or it may not," the man stated. "My advice? Learn to identify it just in case."

"Nightlock is black, right?" Cupid asked.

"That's right. Hang on, I have a card that explains about it somewhere around here," the trainer turned away, flipping through several identification cards.

Miles sighed, his expression a mixture of anxious and angry. Cupid, of course, was the sort to be quite in tune to the emotions of himself and others. He therefore asked Miles what was wrong.

"Uh… we're in the Hunger Games?" Miles said, scoffing. "When I win this I'm making a counter attack and putting it all back the way it was."

"Think you can win?" Cupid asked. "Those guys look scary…"

Miles and Cupid glanced over to where Stinn and Hellania were making mincemeat of several dummies with their swords. Miles flinched, but didn't let fear show on his face.

"The strongest tribute doesn't always win. The best one does, and I'm the best there is. My uncle says so," Miles gave Cupid a dry look. "What, think you could win?"

"Nope. I'd never be able to win if it came down to a fight," Cupid replied, shaking his head. "I'm not a killer."

"Not with those skinny arms," Miles agreed.

Shouting got Cupid's attention a moment later. He watched as, at the far side of the training centre, Rhonda had been surrounded by Goldie, Alvorn, Sawyer, Zunilla and Leamus. The five Capitol teens were all screaming at her and spitting, nothing but hatred filling their faces. Cupid left Miles and the trainer behind, coming over to get a closer look.

It wasn't like anybody was making any move to stop the altercation.

"This is all your grandpa's fault!" Goldie screeched.

"He doomed us! He just had to underestimate those fucking district monkeys!" Sawyer yelled, balling her hands into fists.

"When the gong rings you're the first one to die!" Leamus held a fist up to Rhonda's face. "If we can't pay back your damn grandpa we can sure as hell take it out on you!"

Alvorn and Zunilla humph'd their agreement and shoved Rhonda to the floor. This was enough for the trainers and the guards to come over to break it up. The five instigators were swiftly led away for a one hour time out before they could resume training. Rhonda was left on the floor, covered in spit and tears.

Almost everybody ignored her, whether they blamed her or not.

Cupid was not amongst them. The small boy approached Rhonda and offered her a tender hand.

"Come with me," Cupid offered her. "When the gong rings, come with me. We don't have to fight."

Rhonda's response was a broken sob and wordlessly taking Cupid's hand. When at rock bottom and having lost absolutely everything in life it truly paid to have at least one person who gave the tiniest damn.

Cupid only did what came natural and did not regret his choice to show kindness to Rhonda, in spite of the vile man she was descended from.

Even the way several tributes were glaring at him for this display didn't break his resolve to do the right thing, no matter what.

* * *

Spool spent much of the day out of the training centre, trying to gather up some interested sponsors for his tribute. Of course, there were a few little issues that were giving him a hard time in pulling this off.

Firstly, sponsors were not going to work in the same way they used to. Money was not to change hands for these final Games. No, it was all about points. Every day the nation could cast votes to who they wanted to support. Every thousand people meant one point and each mentor would buy equipment with these points. The points carried over day to day and, depending on how long the Games went on, week to week.

The second problem was that many amongst the districts, who now had the overwhelming population majority, had zero intent to cast votes and raise points. They wanted to see these children suffer horrifically for the crimes against humanity the Capitol had gleefully caused for generations. Why would they help them?

The third problem was that, while the Capitol citizens were all going to cast votes, they would be inclined to vote for those who either had living family or were well known public figures prior to the Capitol's fall. Cupid was in neither category. Sure, he had a romance themed blog, but that was small potatoes at this point. Especially when compared to Rhonda, Miles and Goldie.

Spool entered the sponsor garden, ready to do the same job he'd already performed over thirty times prior and get some people on his tribute's side.

The atmosphere was far different than it normally was.

There was no frenzied cheering. There was no eager giggles over animated discussions of how the tributes would die. There was no money changing hands or drinks being passed around in great excess.

The Capitol crowd looked miserable, trudging around like they were the walking dead. The reality was smashing them in the face.

This was really happening.

Their children were going to die.

They had laughed over this when it happened to others for over seventy years.

Spool noticed the families of some of the tributes here and there, going around and pleading people to help their own tributes get points and thus more supplies. The tears and sobs were all raw and real.

Spool noticed some of the other mentors were already there, having gotten an early start to the day. Some of them seemed to be getting small crowds together to make pledges of support for their tributes. Numi improvised a 'mercy rap' to help Belle's odds improve and seemed to be doing a fine job of it. Elsewhere Crown was handing out free candy to a large group of people, all for the sake of aiding his own tribute Malvin. Even Chuff had shown up, utterly lost and out of his depth with the situation he'd been tossed into, and had a group of seven or eight people on board to vote for Hellania. It was obvious he did not like the district racist he'd been paired with, but he was sucking it up and doing his job regardless.

Lammy soon approached Spool, having arrived about a half hour earlier. She looked upset and in great need of a hug, something Spool was more than ready to provide.

"This is awful," Lammy whispered. "Nobody wants to help Romanita. Suddenly they feel sorry for how a blind tribute is in the arena, but that's not why they don't want to help her."

"Why not then?" Spool asked.

"It's less about her being a 'poor investment' like it normally would be, and now it's just that they don't think she can win. They want to help somebody that may stand a chance," Lammy covered her face, shaking in Spool's hold. "What do I do Spool?"

"I might have a plan. It was going to be for Cupid, but I think it might work for both of our tributes," Spool started to smile. "It's all your choice in the end though. Only you have the right to make the choice."

"What do you mean?" Lammy asked, curious.

"Cupid gave me the idea this morning," Spool said as he and Lammy moved to sit down on a solid gold bench. "He's really invested in our love life, you know. He called us the best couple in the history of the nation."

"Oh, did he now?" Lammy asked, giggling as he cheeks turned a shade of pink. "But, what's that got to do with his sponsor idea?"

"Everything," Spool stated. "He suggested that we tell this huge crowd something like 'if Cupid wins the Games then we'll finally get married'. If we switch the wording to include Romanita as well then both may stand a chance."

"Wait… married?" Lammy started to smile, her eyes widening somewhat. "Spool, of course I'll-"

"Sssshh, not just yet," Spool said, unable to hide his smile. "If we promise these people a happy wedding _if_ one of our tributes win then we'll get all the points we need. If we get engaged right now then Cupid and Romanita get nothing."

"So…" Lammy paused for a moment, thinking it over. "Just to clear, even if our tributes die, then-"

"We'll still get married. I think we'd both wanted to ever since we were twenty or so," Spool said, chuckling. "But a grand celebrity wedding? One of ours winning is the price."

"Sounds like a plan to me," Lammy said, giggling. "So, how're we gonna do this?"

"I might have an idea," Spool said, winking.

Spool stood upon the backrest of the bench and clapped his hands to get all eyes on him.

"May I have your attention everybody?" Spool yelled, cupping his hands around his mouth. "I have an offer for you guys! You've known me for decades, albeit by a fake name. You've known Lammy for even longer. You watched us grow and fall in love. You now know we had nothing to do with these Games as, full disclosure, we both voted no!"

Spool paused, waiting until all were silent and staring his way. He smirked, always loving being the centre of attention. It was time to drop the bombshell.

"I implore you, please support Cupid or Romanita! They're good kids, and if one of them ends up surviving… Lammy and myself will get married! The whole celebrity wedding she-bang, the entire works! An event the nation has wanted for, like, decades really? All it takes it lending us a hand one more time," Spool spread out his arms widely. "So, how about it?"

There was silence for a few moments, save for Lammy's embarrassed mumbling.

Not long after that a hoard of Capitol citizens, the sort with nobody to personally lose in the Games nor a friendship with the family of a tribute, began to make their way over to Spool and Lammy. It wouldn't be an hour before the first thousand was met and after that, who knew, Spool figured it to be possible that they could exceed five thousand.

Despite all the early success going on with his final shot at mentoring, there was one particularly sombre note he couldn't help but notice.

Johanna was nearby and, by the looks of it, was mocking her tribute's family. Indeed, Pietro's parents and sisters had come over in hopes of her pulling off something like what Spool did. Johanna's response had them in tears.

"Help you? Ha! I'm gonna put my feet up and let the little bastard die. Nobody said I had to help him if I didn't feel like it," Johanna sneered and turned to leave. "My family was killed because I refused to sell my body to freaks like you. You deserve what you've gotten."

As much as Spool understood Johanna's anger he knew he wouldn't do the same. Whatever the Capitol cost him, it wasn't worth taking it out on a kid.

He'd let Johanna, Crimson and any others similarly vengeful play the game they wanted to play. But Spool? He was playing to claim a victor.

* * *

By the time the second day of training was three quarters over Cupid had begun to notice that several alliances were forming amongst the tributes. Some had known each other prior to the Games while others shared a similar sort of ideology.

For some it was a joy of causing pain. For others it was a desire to have friends in the little time that remained.

Cupid's own alliance consisted of himself, Acacia, Rhonda, Romanita, Melodie and Malvin. All weak and small, all with very little chance at winning the Games.

All with just about nothing left except the tentative friendship they had with each other. Gwenith could only fondly smile, going misty eyed as she called them the second coming of the 'Loser Alliance' from her own Games so very long ago. She still missed her old friends Prongs and Shrimp.

They were far from being the only tributes to have an alliance, of course. While Cupid focused most his attention on the water training station there was still a part of him that just couldn't help but watch the other alliances go about their training.

The strongest, meanest tributes had formed a sort of career pack. Despite not being trained murderers per-say, few would disagree that Stinn, Helania, Tallulah and Cnaeus had both brawn and cruelty in plentiful supply. The quarter butchered the dummies and swung the weapons far better than anybody else could.

Goldie and Ponty had obviously allied together, being friends prior to the Games. They trained with knives as best as they could, though it was clear neither was anywhere close to an expert. Goldie was shamelessly trying to seduce several of the trainers with her charms, though nobody was taking to her. There would be no mercy gained through sex appeal.

Pietro and Miles had also allied, more out of their arrogant natures and senses of superiority clicking than any other reason. Being near each other had, if nothing else, made them confident and fairly sure of themselves.

As for the rest, they were seemingly flying solo for the deathmatch that loomed ahead. All were doing their best to train, but few were looking to be high scorers in the making. A lifetime of excess and wanting for nothing hadn't gifted most of the kids with powerful bodies, or even moderately passable ones.

This was all too obvious to Cupid when he looked to where Victor was dragging himself along the floor. The legless boy had been unable to do much of anything since the Games had begun. He'd not even been given a wheelchair to get around.

The districts were truly out for blood with their revenge.

"Poor Victor," Cupid said.

"Poor all of us," Melodie sniffled, her hands over her face.

"We're gonna… die…" Rhonda trailed off into despair filled sobs.

"I don't wanna die… I don't want to bleed!" Melodie sunk to the ground, crying even louder.

Romanita stood off to the side, in silent depression as usual. She didn't see a way out of this nightmare, metaphorically and literally. Malvin was much the time, silent aside the occasional tearful weep.

Only Cupid had not broken yet, if only as he'd accepted his death was inevitable. He could try to outlive the rest, sure, but in his heart… he had a strong feeling he was not going to make it.

He was alright with that.

But seeing his new friends crying? That was something he couldn't abide by. But how could he lessen their suffering? What was there that he could say?

Nothing could be done aside from giving each of them a hug and words of assurance.

"We can't give up. If any of us are going to live then we need to try," Cupid's voice wavered as he spoke. "We need to give it our all! Think about it, we survived a nationwide war. The war was all of humanity! This is just twenty four people… if you think about it, the hardest part is behind us. C'mon guys, we've got this."

Alas, none of Cupid's allies shared his optimism. Sure, his words were met with weak smiles and the slightest glimmer of gratitude, but it didn't change obvious facts such as their own sheer weakness or how Stinn and Tallulah were so powerful with sadistic streaks a mile wide.

The lattermost fact was made evident with how the pair sneered and spat upon victor as they walked past him, moving from the sword training station to the halberd training station.

"I'd say run for your life, but we know that's not going to happen," Stinn said, nothing but coldness in his eyes.

"You have no chance. None whatsoever, little boy," Tallulah added.

Cupid knew there was only one thing to do. As soon as the older, scarier tributes were gone he scampered over to Victor, kneeling down to offer him a hand.

"Allies?" Cupid offered. "We have room for more."

Victor let the tears fall freely down his face, but nonetheless he accepted Cupid's offer and let the younger boy help him away towards the Anti-Despair Alliance.

The title was a work in progress. Cupid was sure that it would get better.

* * *

Spool wasn't entirely sure what to expect when he sat down with Cupid to watch the training scores be announced. Had the boy scored high? Had be scored terribly? Would it even matter if his entire plan was to outlive, not outfight? And what of the scores the other twenty three tributes would receive?

One glance at Acacia cowering and sniffling in her spot beside Gwenith told him that, if nothing else, Cupid was unlikely to be the lowest scorer of the lot.

"So, what did you do in training?" Spool asked Cupid.

"Showed them that I know all about surviving in the wold. Poison identification, water purifying, food finding… you know, survival skills. I said I wasn't going to hurt people, I was going to win this thing the right way," Cupid glanced off to the side. "Was that a bad idea?"

"Well, if nothing else it's bold to say that you won't fight," Spool said, hesitating for a moment.

"I figured it'd be okay. The gamemakers are from the districts… maybe they'd like seeing somebody who won't hurt people. That's why they hate the Capitol right? All of the people it hurt," Cupid shrunk in his seat a bit. "I thought, maybe, a pacifist would be something they'd like."

"We can only hope," Spool said, patting Cupid on the shoulder. "Chin up, things are far from over. Your plan for sponsors worked, you know. Over twenty thousand on your side already."

It was a relief to Spool that Cupid had begun to smile upon hearing these words. After decades of being a rebel there was really only one thing Spool couldn't handle these days – his tribute crying. Well, two things. He'd not be able to abide Lammy crying either. Still, Cupid was currently a close second.

The show began, revealing Caesar Flickerman on screen. Unlike every prior Games he had no hair dye nor modifications to his appearance. For the first time in forever his natural brunette hair was on display to the nation. He looked ever so tired, lacking his typical pep.

After all, he no longer had to force himself to act liker an eager host. After so very long he could finally allow himself to openly show his own pain, his own guilt, his own self-loathing. It had stopped being a game years and years ago. This realisation and how he used his position to try and help tributes – and how he'd not been working for Snow per-say – saved him from the woodchipper or prison. Claudius was forced to chill out in jail for the next ten years, so Caesar would be flying completely solo for these final Hunger Games.

Spool was alright with this outcome. He and Caesar had always gotten along quite well.

"As always, the scores have been graded from one to twelve. The new staff of district born gamemakers would like to make the disclaimer that the criteria used was much the same as used in the past. All tributes were marked fairly and hours went into ensuring the correct score was given per tribute," Caesar paused for a moment. "Rest assured, families of those in the Games, all tributes have a chance to make it home. Hope is lost for exactly **none** of them yet. Don't forget that."

"You guys hear that?" Gwenith said to Acacia and Cupid. "You both have a chance. You're by no means 'doomed'. If _I_ can win the Games… if _Snag_ can win them… who can't?"

Cupid smiled, feeling a small spark of hope within his heart. A spark that had potential to, as they say, catch fire. Acacia didn't react. Indeed, the green haired girl was completely blank and defeated. Still, it was a step up from crying.

"I won't hold anybody in suspense any longer. Now of all times we don't need anything to be drawn out," Caesar said, his tone sombre. "And so, we begin. Starting with the male from Team One and working down until we reach the girl from Team Twelve…"

A picture of Miles' smug face appeared on-screen with a red background.

"From Team One, Miles Templesmith with a score of… seven."

A picture of Rhonda's miserable face appeared on-screen with a red background.

"From Team One, Rhonda Snow with a score of… one."

A picture of Cnaeus' glaring mug was shown on-screen with an orange background.

"From Team Two, Cnaeus Raspberyy with a score of… nine."

Spool winced, concerned over how high Cnaeus had scored. A moment later Goldie's flirty, slightly lewd face appeared on-screen with an orange background.

"From Team Two, Goldie Mendez with a score of… six."

A picture of Alvorn's grim face was shown on-screen with a yellow background.

"From Team Three, Alvorn Wake with a score of… five."

A picture of Sawyer's sulky face was shown on-screen with a yellow background.

"From Team Three, Sawyer Nocella with a score of five."

A picture of Victor's resigned face appeared on-screen with a dark blue background.

"From Team Four, Victor Rupee with a score of… one."

Spool watched Cupid discreetly wipe away a tear. How was he going to react when his little alliance inevitably died, ideally without him meeting the same fate? They both looked back at the screen to see Tallulah's cruel face displayed on-screen with a dark blue background.

Spool did not often hate minors, but the fact this girl saw district citizens as animals and literally had been on a 'hunting trip' to murder people made him sick to his stomach. His darker side thought she deserved what she had gotten.

"From Team Four, Tallulah Prime with a score of… ten."

Spool and Cupid did. For one it was fear, for the other it was dread of living in a world where this girl would get away scot-free with her crimes.

A picture of Blaze's cocky face appeared on screen with a green background.

"From Team Five, Blaze Royale with a score of… five."

A picture of Romanita's helpless, unseeing face appeared on screen with a green background.

"From Team Five, Romanita Toriff with a score of… two."

Spool felt his heart pang. He wondered how Lammy and her poor tribute were feeling at that very moment. No doubt both felt awful.

A picture of Stinn's cold and heartless face appeared on screen with a cyan background.

"From Team Six, Stinn Bone with a score of… eleven."

Spool felt his eyes widen. Even though Stinn had been the son of a highly effective and sadistic peacekeeper he'd not thought such skill would have passed onto him. Clearly he'd been wrong, and worse yet Cupid had paled and Acacia had started to weep.

A picture of Hellania's furious face appeared on screen with a cyan background.

"From Team Six, Hellania Saint with a score of… ten."

"Seems like Team Six are the ones to beat," Spool muttered. Cupid could only silently nod his agreement.

A picture of Raptor's sneering face appeared on screen with a gold background.

"From Team Seven, Raptor Ourang with a score of… seven."

A picture of Belle's almost-but-not-quite perky face appeared on screen with a gold background.

"From Team Seven, Belle Singh with a score of… three."

A picture of Malvin's tearstained face appeared on screen with a pink background.

"From Team Eight, Malvin Sleek with a score of… two."

A picture of Zunilla's grumpy face appeared for on screen with a pink background.

"From Team Eight, Zunilla Norvus with a score of… four."

Spool and Cupid sat upright, knowing that Cupid's score was next on the list. Spool clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white while Cupid started to tremble and become short of breath.

Just what score was a pacifist from a destroyed regime worth to the new world order?

"From Team Nine, Cupid Sol with a score of…"

Spool and Cupid leaned forth as one. Cupid's own slightly smiling face was shown on screen with a purple background.

"…Three."

Spool felt like he'd been punched. His first reaction was to watch for Cupid's reaction, but the boy wasn't really seemingly overly upset. Moreso just a little cautious.

"I mean… I was never going to score high with my skinny arms and pacifist plan," Cupid said, anxiously shrugging. "I didn't score the lowest, or even second lowest… if Snag won with a one and Gwenith won with a two, maybe a three will be just enough?"

"That's the spirit Cupid," Gwenith said, warmly smiling. "It could happen. That goes for you too Acacia."

"Gwenith's right," Spool agreed. "You both have a chance."

Spool oh so badly hoped the elderly victor wasn't wrong.

Acacia's whimpering face was shown on screen with a purple background.

"From Team Nine, Acacia Gnome with a score of… two."

Acacia tried to force a smile. The way her eyes leaked out tears and the corner of her mouth twitched painfully only made Acacia seem more miserable than she already was.

Gwenith wasted no time in giving her young tribute a much needed hug.

Caesar continued with the scores as a picture of Pietro's energetic face was shown on-screen with a brown background.

"From Team Ten, Pietro Dully with a score of… six."

A picture of Melodie's weepy face appeared on screen with a brown background.

"From Team Ten, Melodie Cromwell with a score of… two."

A picture of Leamus' bitter and vengeful face appeared on screen with a white background.

"From Team Eleven, Leamus Jump with a score of… eight."

A picture of Nix's barely human-looking face appeared on screen with a white background.

"From Team Eleven, Nix Fowler with a score of… five."

A picture of Jeiss' conflicted looking face appeared on screen with a black background.

"From Team Twelve, Jeiss Donroy with a score of… seven."

Caesar seemed to be relieved that only one score remained to be read out. A picture of Ponty's slightly skittish face appeared on screen with a black background.

"We now come to the final score reveal of the night and, indeed, for the rest of our nation's existence. It was a struggle for our tributes to earn these scores, just as it was for all who preceded them. But don't forget the real struggle is yet to come and that all of them, whether they scored high or low, will need help from sponsors," Caesar took a deep breath. "From Team Twelve, Ponty Lumiere with a score of… five."

Caesar looked dead on at the camera, filled with the upmost seriousness.

"There you have it. Do with those scores as you may. Who is the worthiest of your support? Or, perhaps you'll split your support twenty four ways? It's all up to you," Caesar sighed, weary and ever so tired. "Goodnight Panem. I will see you again at the interviews tomorrow."

The screen swiftly went blank and all was silent. Spool glanced between Cupid and Acacia, the former getting increasingly nervous and the latter moments away from bawling.

Spool wasn't sure how they were going to handle the interviews the next day.

He was similarly lost as to how they would handle the arena. If only he knew what it was, but even the victors had no idea what the temporary staff of rebels-turned-gamemakers had in mind.

All he knew was that it was going to seriously hurt.

* * *

Cupid stood in the backstage area waiting for his turn to be interviewed. He gulped, wondering what the nation was going to think of him.

It would be easy to make the Capitol like him, probably.

But this time it didn't mean squat if the Capitol liked him. The districts were likely to despise him and it was them who held the overwhelming majority. Power had shifted hands and it was Cupid who had to pay the price.

Unless, of course, he could charm the nation with kindness, love and the power of pacifism.

He had to try.

Already everybody from teams one through to eight had been called forth and Zunilla's interview was winding up. It wouldn't be long now until it was Cupid's turn to talk to Caesar.

It was honestly strange to see Caesar so sombre and… _real_ after seeing him be such an energetic stage presence for as long as he could remember.

The interviews had been a varied grab bag so far, but the common trend was that nobody was happy at all. Miles had put on a forced act of confidence and expressed his sadness that his famous uncle was jailed, Rhonda had wept throughout her whole interview, Goldie's flirting was ever so empty, Victor was beyond the 'despair event horizon', Tallulah screeched and snarled at the district citizens in the audience, Stinn wasn't afraid but nonetheless vowed to make somebody pay for what was happening to him, Hellania didn't acknowledge the district citizens as being people and demanded the 'monkeys' get out of the Capitol, Belle performed possibly the saddest rap ever heard on Panem and Malvin was too depressed and weepy to do more and plead for his mother to save him.

Soon enough the buzzer sounded and Zunilla left the stage. Cupid straightened out his interview get-up – a salmon pink tuxedo – and tried not to tremble.

It was his potentially last moment to shine and he wanted to make the most of it.

"He's named after a being who spread love throughout the world and I have it on good authority that he is quite the loving, kind person to be around," Caesar began. "Please, join me in giving Cupid Sol from Team Nine a warm welcome to the show tonight."

Cupid was pointed out towards the stage by a burly security guard. He forced a smile as he exited the backstage area and walked onto the flashy stage. Lights were everywhere, the noise was ever so overwhelming and armed guards were impossible to miss. There was no way for the Capitol to escape its fate.

Cupid saw no way to escape his… so what better way to greet doom than with a smile?

Few ever smiled at doom, so was it a wonder it was such a cruel thing?

"Welcome to the show Cupid," Caesar said, shaking Cupid's hand as he sat down in the empty seat.

"Thank you Caesar," Cupid replied.

"How are you feeling?" Caesar asked. "By all means, be as honest as you would like. There is no need to fake a thing anymore."

"Well… I'll be honest, I don't like my chances. It's going to be hard to be the last one standing. Maybe close to impossible," Cupid began to wring his hands.

"Do you not think you can fight your way to the top?" Caesar asked.

"I don't, but it's a bit more complex than that," Cupid replied. "I _won't_ fight."

There was silence around the audience. So far the tributes had either declared they were ready to fight, hadn't hinted at their poor chances or had just spoken about other things. Cupid was the sole tribute who had said, in no uncertain terms, he would not fight.

"There's been enough fighting and killing. It's time for it to end," Cupid said, filled with determination. "I won't fight. I won't kill. Under no circumstances will I cause harm to a single person."

"But.. how will you win?" Caesar asked, torn between being impressed and feeling bad for the boy and his highly futile plan.

"By living the longest," Cupid had started to gain confidence in his words as he spoke them. "It's not a rule that I have to kill. It's not a rule that I have to make other people suffer. After the war we just went through… the last thing I want is to create even more pain. That won't get us anywhere."

Cupid looked out at the crowd, mixed with those from the Capitol and people from all of the districts.

"I can do this. I can win by survival and working with my friends… and if I do die, at least I'll have never caused pain. I'd still be me right to the end," Cupid paused for a moment, trying not to shiver under all the gazes. "It almost happened once before, long ego."

"A pacifist victory? In which Games?" Caesar asked, intrigued. The man appeared fascinated by all that Cupid was saying.

"The Second. Pliny only scored a kill because she wanted to prevent the remaining person left alive from suffering even more after losing his arm," Cupid explained. Nobody missed how he did not use the word 'tribute'. "Had she not given him poison by his own begging she'd have scored zero kills. So, I know it can be done. I know it's possible. Even if it's a million to one, well… the one is all I need. There's still a chance."

The interview soon moved on from this, covering topics such as Cupid's upbringing and his hobbies. But, inevitably, it came back to his family. The fact they were all dead was impossible to avoid.

"They were good people," Cupid said as the interview began to wind to a close, a tear trickling down his face. "They would not have wanted me to become a killer, so I won't be. I'm not going to disappoint them."

"We wish you all the very best of luck Cupid," Caesar said. He turned the audience. "Right, everybody?"

Unlike most years there were few who called out a response. But unlike most years, the responses weren't just for show or utterly fake. Several people really did wish Cupid all of the best.

Cupid wondered if it would make a difference. He could only hope. At least the ability to hope hadn't been taken away from him yet.

* * *

Spool felt his stomach churning as he stood with Cupid upon the roof of the tribute building. The hovercraft was ready to fly away to the arena and the rest of the tributes had already boarded the hovercraft, some more willingly than others.

All of them more willingly than Hellania.

He knelt down to Cupid's height, placing both of his hands upon the small boy's shoulders.

"When the gong rings run for your life. Run until you cannot run anymore. You need to avoid being anywhere close to all of the strong children," Spool paused, trying to find the words. His time was very limited, so he settled for improvising. "If your allies survive the bloodbath then stay with them, but… just be careful, alright? They won't all survive the bloodbath. I'm sorry."

Cupid shakily opened his arms, pleading without words for a hug. Spool was quick to grant this final request.

"You can do this," Spool whispered.

"I'll try," Cupid replied.

All too soon Cupid had been taken away and the hovercraft was flying away towards the last arena. Spool stood alone on the roof in silence, watching the sky where the hovercraft had vanished.

Could Cupid really do this?

Could he mentor the boy to victory and a second chance at life?

He knew he'd see soon, and the thought of the answer being no honestly terrified him. He wouldn't hold anything against the victors who had voted yes towards these Games, but he would never ever agree that this was fair and just.

Eventually Numi walked up to the roof, calling out to Spool. She waved him over, gesturing down the stairs she'd walked up.

"It all kicks off in one hour," Numi stated. "We're needed at the mentoring room."

"Right, right. I'm coming," Spool said as he followed behind Numi. "…Numi, do you-"

"Regret my vote?" Numi asked. She looked lost. "I honestly don't know. Part of me says yes, part of me says no. Either way I feel more regret than Crimson and Johanna do."

"So, more than exactly none?" Spool figured.

"Ayup my mans," Numi said with a single nod.

* * *

When Cupid's launch plate licked into place, giving him his first look at the arena, he felt himself starting to get light heated. He swayed for a few moments, overcome with a primal sort of terror that filled his every bone and blood vessel.

It was like he'd been thrown down into hell. He glanced around at the foul arena, lost as to how he could simply outlive the other tributes in a place such as this.

It was a massive garbage dump. Much of the ground was littered in titanic piles of trash and what little wasn't was either scorched into pure blackness or, even worse, was a deep pit filled with neon green toxic waste. The sky overhead was a pale orange, almost a little pink. Stars were faintly visible in the dawn of the morning.

He could hear various tributes crying and screaming for mercy on their own pedestals. One of them, he couldn't tell who from the distance, had pissed themselves. Cupid's own tribute outfit, purple per his team colour, was left unblemished though it nonetheless did nothing to keep the morning chills away from his skin.

The cornucopia sat at the centre of the filth ridden clearing, stocked to the brim with supplies. Food, water bottles, blankets, a tent kit, medical supplies and a large barrel of what appeared to be mint humbugs.

There were weapons too, all of them sharp and many of them barbed. Knives, swords, axes, spears, a single silver bow and that was only the start. All were designed for one thing and one thing only – ensuring each kill was agonisingly painful.

Cupid noticed two things. The first was that the cornucopia wasn't silver this time. It hadn't gone back to the gold it had been known for in the earlier Games either. No, this time it had been coloured bronze. The final colour on the podium. A colour to mark a new era and an end to the Games. After these last ones, of course.

But that was nothing to the second thing Cupid noticed. The second thing was that he, the other tributes and the cornucopia itself were contained in a sort of 'bowl'. An unsteady slope of garbage surrounded them on all sides. There was no option for them to take aside from trying to climb their way out to safety, or the closest thing to it that was possible.

"No, no, no…" Cupid began to tremble, right from his shoes to the tips of his hair.

* * *

"No, no, no," Spool clenched his fists as he gazed at the live footage displayed on screen.

The countdown had reached thirty. The final Cornucopia Bloodbath was about to begin… and Cupid had all the odds against him. Surviving off of the land would be close to impossible in an arena like this. A fast retreat up the garbage slope was similarly going to be difficult. Cupid's entire gameplan had been sunk.

Those around him had various reactions to the children shown on screen, most of whom were terrified and wailing for their mothers. Lammy was already stress eating her way through a large bag of cookies as she watched Romanita blindly staring outwards from her pedestal, Gwenith was already close to tears and Acacia hadn't taken a scratch yet, Peeta was simply depressed as he gazed at Raptor, Numi mumbled inaudibly to herself as she looked at little Belle and Snag's law was clenched in a tormented way as he looked at Victor sobbing.

Others had reactions Spool had a very hard time observing without a tiny amount of disgust. Alas, the suffering of his fellow victors was enough for him to hold back from making a comment. Johanna and Crimson poured out drinks, both eager to see the show begin and watch their own tributes died. The pair had done nothing to help their assigned tributes, only mocked them before they were taken away. Spool understood this, but he didn't need to like it. Nor did he need to like the way Enobaria watched the countdown tick ever closer to zero with a sort of feral hunger in her eyes.

All this and then there was Chuff's reaction to top it all off.

The man frankly did not know what he was even doing here. The hell did he know about mentoring? He'd never even been a tribute!

"Ten seconds to go," Wattzon groaned, a hand over his face. "We all ready?"

"No," Annie faintly whispered.

"Too bad," Olga stated. "It's about to begin whether you're ready or not."

* * *

"Three… two… one… begin."

The gong rang and the tributes were off.

The sight of the awfully unhospitable arena had convinced Cupid to, perhaps foolishly, make a run into the fray and at least grab something before he tried to climb the garbage slope leading deeper into the arena. In seconds he'd managed to grab up a fat loaf of bread from the ground wrapped within a plastic seal.

"Let me go!" a terrified voice begged.

Cupid turned to see that Raptor, Miles and Sawyer had grabbed Rhonda before the girl could even take one step off of her pedestal. She struggled helplessly in their grip. It was beyond the power of Cupid or anybody else to do a thing to save her.

"This is all your Grandpa's fault!" Sawyer yelled.

"You can suffer in his place!" Miles screeched.

In moments the trio had smashed Rhonda's head against the launch pedestal, hard enough to crack her head open. A few more smashes led to chunks of gore and brains splattering the ground, a few fragments of bone from the young girl's skull falling with them. The corpse was dropped and, as the trio of murderers scattered, the Snow bloodline was ended.

Terror filled Cupid as he helplessly witnessed the horrible death of his ally. This was real, the carnage and agony was real.

And it was going on all around him.

He only had to take one look to the cornucopia where Stinn, Helania and Cnaeus were arming themselves with swords and axes to start backing away. He only had to take a look several meters to his left where Tallulah was smashing apart Malvin's face with a stone mallet to scream and make a desperate run for the garbage slope, snatching up a small backpack along the way.

It was only the poor aim of the other children, bought on by years of living in luxury and never having to actually gain many skills or slight forms of fitness, that prevented any of the knives thrown Cupid's way from actually hitting him.

"No! Please, no!" Nix was tackled over somewhere off to the side by Stinn. She felt him grasp her artificial wings. She knew what was about to happen. "No… NO! NO!"

They were swiftly torn out, strands of flesh coming out with them.

"AAAAARRRRRRGGGGGHHHHHHH!"

That was hardly the only murder or fight-in-progress going on around the filthy battlefield. There was carnage, suffering and death going on as far as Cupid barrelled his way towards the slope at a speed much greater than he believed himself to be capable of.

Goldie had pulled Ponty out of the way of a deadly axe strike and was currently working to punch Blaze until he was beaten and bloody. He wasn't out of it yet and continued to struggle and try to punch back at the older girl.

Stinn had wasted no time in leaving Nix to bleed out and moving on to slicing off Jeiss' head with a mighty swing of his sword, almost roaring from sheer adrenaline.

Hellania noticed Victor desperately trying to crawl away to freedom up the slope and simply dragged him away to his grisly doom within the cornucopia. Of course, even with the darkness the cameras displayed the torture to the nation in full detail.

Belle fought with Romanita over a fairly large backpack, the former too stubborn to let go and the blind girl having enough fight in her to refuse to give up. Neither noticed that Tallulah was approaching them with a heavy crowbar until it was far too late.

Cupid was halfway up the garbage slope, desperate to escape into the unforgiving arena just like Miles, Pietro and Alvorn had already managed to do.

A pair of screams instantly made him turn around.

Acacia and Melodie had been knocked to the ground, losing hold of the meagre scraps they'd managed to claim, and now looked up as Leamus loomed over them. He tightly held a scimitar in his grasp.

Cupid realised his allies in peril were only about fifteen meters away from where he stood, give or take.

Just close enough to save them.

He turned back and began to make a desperate sprint back into the bloodbath and towards his friends. Leamus raised his scimitar into the air…

* * *

"No! What are you doing?!"

Spool knew that Cupid was pure of heart, at least by Panem's standards, but this was pushing it. This was outright suicide! What would his desperate run achieve beside an extra cannon at the end of the bloodbath?

Especially as Stinn and Hellania had just finished butchering Sawyer and would have their breaths back before long. The same was true of Cnaeus, the boy nursing a stab wound to his arm that Zunilla had been lucky enough to inflict.

Well, before Cnaeus had slashed her throat open anyway.

Several mentors around him were either feeling awful over their tribute's death, were openly laughing and enjoying the long overdue punishment on the Capitol or were stressed out over the safety, or lack thereof, of their own charges.

Spool was among the latter group. Nothing existed in the world right now except what Cupid was doing on screen. Spool was leaned over his desk, trying not to throw up.

"No, no, no! Get out of there!" Spool pleaded.

Ten meters away.

Eight meters away.

Six meters away.

"HEY!"

Cupid's yell made Leamus instantly turn around and slash thin air with his sword. Cupid had skidded right underneath the blade in one insane moment. The force of Leamus' strike made him lose his footing and fall down into the garbage.

It was all the time Cupid needed to help both girls to their feet and pull them in the direction of the slope

"We've gotta get out of here! Come on!"

Spool felt cold sweat running down his face as the screen showed Cupid practically hauling his terrified allies to the top of the garbage hill. He pulled Melodie to solid ground first and quickly went to work with pulling Acacia to safety.

"Don't drop me Cupid!" Acacia wailed.

"I won't let go! Never!" Cupid promised.

Cupid was able to keep his word for as long as Acacia was able to be aware of the world around her.

That time didn't even total three seconds. An arrow was fired from afar and ended up pieced within Acacia's neck, killing her instantly.

Cupid recoiled in horror, reflexively dropping his dead team mate and staring with panic down at where the arrow came from.

Tallulah had been the one who fired the shot and even she seemed stumped that her aim had been so good. She soon regained her focus and readied to fire another arrow.

Spool could barely watch. He was distantly aware of Gwenith sobbing over poor Acacia's death. He was almost certain he was about to be doing the same for Cupid.

He ducked right before the shot was fired, the arrow missing him completely. With a pale face, a heavy heart and shaking limbs he took Melodie by the hand and quickly led her off into the depths of the wasteland of garbage.

Spool watched as the cameras panned away, showing the two small kids running for their lives into the horrid arena, weaving past sunk piles and pools of radioactive fallout. Some of the other remaining tributes were visible, all thankfully going in differing directions.

The cameras returned to the cornucopia, showing Stinn noticing Blaze laying unconscious on the ground. Spool was almost amazed just how bad a beating Goldie had given him.

He flinched when Stinn drove his sword into Blaze's chest, finishing off the bloodbath. He heard Beetee sigh, resigned, from somewhere beside himself.

Beetee deserved comfort, but Spool found himself making his way to where Lammy was sitting by herself, softly crying. With practised ease he took her in for a gentle hug.

"She had no chance. None at all," Lammy sobbed between pained hiccups.

Spool knew that he'd be lying if he were to correct his girlfriend. He only increased the strength of the hug, nothing else really needing to be said in that moment.

The couple looked away as the cameras showed close-ups of each corpse that had once been a living, breathing and thinking person with feelings and, in most cases, friends and family. It was just as well they did as most of the bodies were in a horrendous state.

It was, simply put, no different than a normal year of the Hunger Games.

Spool looked over at the eleven mentors who could be said to have 'lost' in the opening minutes. There were varied reactions in every direction he looked.

Crimson was laughing, a grin having been on her face ever since Rhonda died in the first few seconds. She was living the dream with her revenge. Spool looked away from her pretty quickly, not feeling it would do him any good to dwell on this.

Crown stared off into space, depression written in his eyes. His heart went out to Malvin, the poor boy being the second to die at only nineteen seconds into the nightmare.

Trevy had never been close to the Games nor mentoring, given he had managed to escape before his Games even started. It didn't change that he had been covering his face ever since Jeiss had lost his head, dying third. Trevy was all for torturing the Capitol, but he needed a moment to process everything.

Enobaria was wholly unaffected by anything she had seen, least of all the death of her tribute Nix who only lasted a minute or so, and whom had died fourth. She just snickered to herself, practically soaking up the violence.

Snag wasn't letting the Capitol off the hook for how they took away his little girl and had her butchered like an animal. He remained steadfast on his choice being one that worked for him. Even so, why did they have to pair him with poor Victor? Why the boy who was unable to walk at all? He deserved more than being the fifth to die. Alas, what was done was done.

Lammy, of course, was sobbing over Romanita's death. The blind, slightly dim and highly affectionate girl had been precious, truly. But in death and as the sixth to die, the poor girl was just another victim. The odds had just not been in her favour. Spool didn't cease the hug even for a moment.

Numi looked conflicted. The Capitol deserved what they got for what they took from her and families across the nation. But then, why was revenge empty? Why had she gotten such a sweet, perky tribute and not somebody easy to hate like Wattzon did? She'd failed… but maybe, just maybe, she could one day find a way to keep the memory of Belle, the seventh tribute to die, alive.

Harp had thrown up into a bucket when Sawyer got killed so utterly violently. The blood and organs were everywhere, enough so that Harp ended up fainting. Staff were on their way to get her seen to by medics and taken to a nice, safe, warm bed until she was feeling steady again. Nothing would 'fix' the feelings of sorrow she felt for Sawyer, the eighth tribute to die.

Acre didn't feel much, all things considered. Zunilla had hated her from the start and, figuring that Snag had voted yes, took out her anger upon his daughter. Acre thus had no positive memories of her spoiled and very rotten tribute. Even so, she wasn't too proud to take off her toque in respect and wonder if, in a world without the Games, they may have been friends. As it stood, she'd never been able to get to know Zunilla at all before she became the ninth tribute to die.

Gwenith sobbed over Acacia's death. The girl had some horrible family, true, but she wasn't a bad person. She'd been harmless. It was exactly why Gwenith had voted no, she knew that even if some admittedly vile kids like Tallulah were in the arena that there'd still be innocents in there. It was what happened in all Games prior and two wrongs did not make anything right. Gwenith sniffled, her thoughts never quite leaving Acacia, the tenth tribute to die.

Beetee, of course, was feeling a tense sort of guilt over being of no help to Blaze in the short time he had mentored him. They'd just been too different to be able to work anything out. Now it was far too late as Blaze, beaten until he bled badly, was the eleventh to die.

"Eleven left, thirteen remain…" Lammy paused to wipe away a tear. "Do you think Cupid has a chance to win? Let alone without hurting anybody at all?"

"I honestly have no idea," Spool said as he and his still sniffling girlfriend made their way back over to Spool's mentoring desk. "But he's still alive, so until a cannon tells me otherwise I'm going to work on the assumption he can."

Lammy gave Spool's hand a squeeze. "I'll do my best to help."

"Thanks," Spool said, grateful. "Because I'm going to need it."

Spool turned his gaze back to the screens, watching Cupid and Melodie flee towards an unknowable destination. Things would get worse, he was sure of it.

Whatever the future held, he meant what he said. He was with Cupid until the end.

* * *

Cupid and Melodie eventually collapsed, physically unable to keep on moving. They lay in the garbage, their small bodies utterly drained of energy, as their breaths ever so slowly came back to them.

It was quite some time before either of them said anything. Both were too horrified by what they had seen to think of many words to exchange.

"…We survived," Melodie whispered.

Cupid slowly nodded. "That's right. We're alive."

"You saved me," Melodie said, shaking all over with tears leaking down her face. "Cupid… I…"

"Don't thank me. Basic human decency needs no thanks. It's just… something that people ought to just do, you know? No need for any sort of validation or something," Cupid let himself flop onto his back amongst the trash. "This is amazing. We're alive. Neither of us hurt a single person either."

A cannon fired. A second followed it. For the next while the cannons boomed one after another, each a few seconds apart. Each marking a young life that had been ended vastly before its owner's time. All in all eleven cannons fired until there was silence again.

"So many of our allies…" Melodie trailed off, starting to cry.

"So many of our friends," Cupid corrected, softly. "Acacia was right in front of me! If I'd just been a little faster, maybe pulled her to the side quicker… well, too late now. But…"

"But?" Melodie moved a little closer to Cupid in spite of her own fear.

"Well, you're still alive. I can still work hard to save you," Cupid moved a little closer to Melodie as well. "Got any family?"

"Y-y-yeah. My mama, my daddy and four big sisters," Melodie managed to stammer out.

"Then that means you should win," Cupid decided. "You have a family. I don't. You'd be missed more than I would. So, I'll help you win."

Melodie had no idea what to say in response to this. What words could she say, really?

Lacking in words to say she settled for giving Cupid a shaky hug, one returned without hesitation. Neither moved for several minutes.

Soon enough Cupid rose to his feet with Melodie mimicking his actions a moment later. She stuck close to Cupid as the smiling boy – his smile by now very much forced – began to walk through the garbage filled wasteland.

"Where are we going now?" Melodie asked.

"Wherever the cornucopia isn't," Cupid replied. "Maybe they won't find us if we hide somewhere far away?"

The young pair walked on their way towards an unknowable destination, keenly aware every step they took was potentially their very last.

With only a loaf of bread, half a bottle of water, a thick length of rope and a bottle of painkillers between them survival was looking close to impossible.

Cupid recalled something his mother had once said to him.

'You always did like a challenge.'

The words were enough to keep him walking, at least for a while.

* * *

Three days had passed since the Games had begun and Spool had never seen the Capitol so miserable and broken. There was no Games spirit this year, no childish chanting of 'Death! Death! Death!'. No laughing and almost adoration of murder. No street parties, gambling or banquets over as the gruesome Game splayed on massive screens all around.

No, this year the citizens were miserable. They were scared. Spool found it refreshing some had the good grace to look ashamed.

The screens were seemingly eager to show the tributes suffering in the massive garbage dump, every single sob or cry caught by the cameras. Interviewers born from the districts were eager to put the citizens on the spot and ask how this was any different than a normal Hunger Games.

Any time the deaths of the bloodbath were replayed in full graphic detail the citizens scattered in a terrified panic, reporters always yelling after them in hopes of getting an answer as to why they weren't cheering over the agonising deaths this time around.

Hadn't the Games been an 'honour' to be in?

Spool wouldn't lie, some of this was very satisfying. Too often had his tributes been forgotten and laughed at in their terrified, painful final moments. More than a few times some of the audience had been disappointed the deaths were not worse.

Still, there were some things he'd not gain any pleasure from and this deep degree of despair was one of them. After a certain point it went past cruel justice and just become sadism.

He knew he was right to go with his gut and say no.

It wasn't his fault that the families of the dead, those who still had families at least, were screaming and crying with every waking moment. Their lives were utterly ruined, no hope for recovery at all.

The exception was Jeiss' mother. She'd hanged herself, having reaped her own son and essentially condemning him to losing his head.

Spool's wandering through the Capitol streets ended up taking him to a familiar club, one he'd had the pleasure of being a patron at for quite a few years already.

Martins & Victory: Forever Sweet.

Having lost both of their tributes Crown and Harp had returned to their old nightclub, a well-known rebel base of operations and a place that somehow survived the war unscathed. For the time being they were content to try and cope with the pain of failing tributes for the last time. Selling sugary candy and drinks helped with this.

It wasn't just them in the club of course. Numerous Capitol patrons were there, none of them happy and many of them with strong drinks in hand. Some seemed like they'd recently taken a hit of morphling. Spool spared them a few glances as he made his way to the bar counter. Crown greeted him with a very tired smile.

"Hey Tag.. uh, Spool," Crown weakly chuckled. "That one's gonna take time to get used to."

"Well, you know me, always switching things up. Never said identity wasn't one of them," Spool remarked. "The usual please. Still four caps?"

"Nah, it's on the house. All mentors on duty get free drinks," Crown said as he began to make Spool a 'shandy upon the districts' cocktail. "How are you holding up? Good, bad, average, smiling, crying, laughing, screaming, literally can't even?"

"It's stressful, that's for sure," Spool down a gulp of his drink as soon as Crown handed it over. "I said no to the Games, but I was forced to reap him. His life is way more in my hands than any other kid I've had to mentor."

"You're doing fine so far," Crown offered. "Better than I did…"

Spool reached to pat Crown on his shoulder.

"You did your best."

"Thanks Spool," Crown glanced at the TV screens showing the action going on. "What's going on with him Cupid now? He's not been on screen in here for a few hours."

Spool answered by taking out a digital tablet and showing the screen to Crown. It displayed Cupid and Melodie huddling together on the inside of a rusted dumpster. Even with the lid closed the nanoscopic cameras were able to spy in and display their obvious fear.

Oh, and their shivering. The pair were so terrible cold…

"They're dying," Crown whispered, gulping down a bit of bile.

"Not when I send them a sponsor gift," Spool replied. He took a soft breath, a little unsteady. "But it's too dangerous to send them something now. Look, the pack are nearby."

Spool tapped his pad, displaying live footage of Stinn, Tallulah, Cnaus and Hellania stalking quietly through the garbage dump, all holding a sharp weapon some sort. Capitol kids as they were, the quartet had essentially become the equivalent of careers. The age-old idea of the strong hunting down the weak transcended District and Capitol conflict, it seemed.

"How long have they been near your boy and Spud's girl?" Crown asked.

"Two hours, maybe?" Spool wearily finished off his drink. "These four are way stronger than I'd have expected a Capitol kid to be."

"Well, some Capitol kids grow into monsters. We saw that for decades," Crown replied. He squinted his eyes at the screen. "Wait, somebody's in that trash pile."

The so-called careers drew near to the pile of garbage, having noticed the same thing Crown did – the pile was vibrating. Stinn peered closer, curious.

If he'd not been wearing an armoured vest from the cornucopia he'd have either died or been horribly wounded when Leamus, half-mad from just a few days of living in filth, lunged from his hiding place and swung a heavy axe down at Stinn's chest.

He succeeded in knocking Stinn down, but that was it. The rest of the alliance went about chasing Lemaus down. Stinn quickly got back up and rejoined the chase. It wasn't long – no more than a minute and a half – before they'd caught Leamus and began to kill him with their weapons and with twisted bits of junk laying around. It was pure torture.

Torture both for Leamus and the Capitol citizens in the club. They screamed, wailed, cried and howled in terror, almost like they were children themselves. Upwards of twenty of them began to cry, the volume practically doubling as the cannon fired.

Spool made use of the distraction to quickly select some gear in the digital pad's shop, pay for it with many of the points he'd managed to earn for Cupid thus far and send it into the arena.

It only took all of ten seconds for Cupid to leave the dumpster, grab the parachute of supplies and retreat back into this rusty hiding place with nobody the wiser.

Spool hoped the gift of food, water and a thick blanket would be enough to keep Cupid and Melodie alive for at least a day or two. Beyond that, who could say? Surely they'd be forced out of their hiding place before long. No matter how popular, or weak, a tribute was they would never be allowed to hide for long.

Spool could only hope, more out of desperation than anything else, that it would not be the pack who found them first when that happened.

* * *

Eventually Cupid and Melodie were forced to move on from their hiding spot. Rabid racoon mutts had been unleashed and sent after all of the tributes. Some tributes fought off the beasts, others ended up taking wounds.

Cupid and Melodie simply ran for their lives and used what little of their food remained to distract the terrible mutts. Better they lose their food than their flesh.

Goldie meanwhile ended up being bitten until she'd stopped twitching. The cannon marked the end of the casino girl's life, the odds not being in her favour. Ponty had barely gotten away.

It was with fear on all their faces and fatigue in their bones that Cupid and Melodie crossed paths with Ponty partway through the fifth day of the Games. One moment the three had simply walked into the same clearing surrounded by three burning towers of junk, the fire sending smoke into the sky high above.

The next moment Ponty had a knife in hand, slowly making her way towards the pair with the seeming intent to kill them. Cupid didn't miss the way the knife shook in her hands.

He didn't miss the fear in her eyes nor the very subtle shame.

Most of all, he didn't miss how it was quite obvious Ponty didn't want to do this.

"You stay right there," Ponty drew nearer with each passing moment. "Running will only make it worse."

Cupid stood himself in front of Melodie. It wasn't wrong to call him terrified, but he hadn't lost the ability to smile yet. If anything, the way he looked at Ponty was almost warm.

"You don't have to do this," Cupid said, his voice faintly wavering. "We don't have to fight. Not here, not now."

"Only one of us gets to go home," Ponty said, closing in on the pair.

Cupid gulped and laid a card on the proverbial table. The one card he was able to play.

The card boasting the power of love.

"Do you have a family Ponty?" Cupid asked.

Whatever Ponty had expected Cupid to say it wasn't this. She stumbled in place, taken off-guard by this.

"Well, do you?" Cupid repeated, like they were casually talking during recess.

"Yeah, I do. Mama, Papa and my three brothers. They… they care, a lot," Ponty gulped, looking to the side. "They worry that I gamble too much."

"They sound like they're close to you. Would you say you guys are a tight, loving family?" Cupid continued.

"Of course we are!" Ponty snapped, almost offended Cupid may have assumed otherwise. "We're v-v-very close."

"…Do you think they would want their little girl to become a murderer?" Cupid asked, gently taking one step towards Ponty. "No weapons. I'm unarmed."

Cupid slowly raised his hands in surrender.

"You might think you have to kill me, unarmed as I am. Melodie too… but what would your family think?" Cupid persisted. "…Would they be proud if you stuck that knife in my throat?"

"No," Ponty said, paling.

"What about in my guts?" Cupid asked.

"No…" Ponty was losing her resolve.

"What about my eye socket, riiiight here?" Cupid pointed to his left eye for effect.

"…No…" a single tear slid down Ponty's face. "They wouldn't. I don't think they'd… s-s-see me the same way…"

Cupid now stood in stabbing range. He held out his arms, both of them faintly shaking, offering a hug. Rain began to softly fall from the sky.

"You don't have to be a killer. I'm not going to kill a single person, no matter what" Cupid said, his voice clearly implying this was not a matter to debate. "…You could win that way too. Imagine that, winning these dreadful Games just by being nice. Just by, you know… talking. Living. By being a kid."

Cupid gulped. Ponty's hold on the knife was weak, but she wasn't letting it go just yet. Any attempt to gently take it from her would surely get him stabbed, or at least cut in some way. No, he knew that he would have to go for broke and put it all on the line.

"I noticed at the bloodbath that Goldie defended you from the boy – Blaze, wasn't it? – that tried to kill you. She did all the rough stuff so you didn't have to. I know you were friends, you both said as much in the interview, but… here's what I want to know," Cupid braced himself in case he'd vastly overestimated his charisma and was about to face a stab. "…Would Goldie - may she rest in peace – want you to become a killer?"

Silence.

"It doesn't have to be this way Ponty," Cupid said, inching forwards just a little more.

There was silence for several more seconds, the rain seeming to fall harder within that time. Cupid kept his gaze on Ponty, while his ears were trained upon Melodie. She remained safely behind him, in silent awe aside the occasional sob or hiccup.

He hoped that she'd not be traumatised by his death, should he fail and Ponty stab him.

Such a thing never came to pass.

Ponty dropped the knife, dropping to her knees a moment later. She began to cry.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry…" the small girl covered her face, shuddering all over as tears flooded her eyes and leaked down her face. Her sorrow dripped from her cheeks to the dirty ground below. "…It's hurt so much… Goldie… my family… I can't…"

Cupid gently took Ponty into a hug. She didn't rebuff him.

"I know Ponty, I know," Cupid whispered. "Goldie's like my parents, you know. Dead, but memories of them guide my choices. I think Goldie helped you make the right choice."

Ponty only responded with another sob.

Cupid paused, briefly alarmed when somebody joined the hug from behind. Luckily for him it was only Melodie, the endlessly terrified girl having had the nerve to get up from the ground.

"You're really something else Cupid," she mumbled, amazed. "Something really good."

"No, I'm just me," Cupid said, a tear in his own eye. "Just Cupid."

Perhaps, thought the boy, being 'just Cupid' was enough. At least, this time it had been.

No way would he be able to talk Tallulah or Stinn out of violence and murder. They appeared to enjoy it, and it wasn't easy to reason with a person who killed for pleasure.

Cupid hoped he'd not become somebody like that. He'd rather die.

* * *

Spool was amazed.

How was Cupid not dead yet? By all accounts it made no sense. If any tribute attempted what he had – and, he reminded himself, none would have the sheer nerve to try – they'd have been killed in under a minute.

But then again, this wasn't a normal Hunger Games. With tributes from a different place came an all new sort of social dynamic. One he had to admit he was enjoying. Who knew that pacifism really could work?

Of course, nobody was going to bend on the fact there would only be a single victor. Spool knew that, when one or both of Cupid's allies died, it was going to be a disaster. How would Cupid keep himself going?

At least he was steadily becoming popular with the audience. The Capitol citizens were miserable, seeing the Games as the torture it was. Dealing with the physically agonising guilt and the terror inducing footage on the inescapable screens was driving them crazy.

Cupid gave them an out from that. His refusal to fight and add to the torment held the Capitol's attention like nothing else.

The way he treated Melodie and new friend Ponty with genuine care was heartwarming. The way he spoke of the values of kindness, friendship and love was like nothing the Capitol had ever seen before.

These were ideals they were starting to desire. Ideals they were ready to allow into their lives.

Ideals to shape the future.

This was all well and good in Spool's opinion, but it didn't change the fact Cupid was fighting one hell of an uphill battle, except without the fighting part or the battle part.

It was hard, okay?

"Are you alright Spool?" Lammy asked from her spot beside her boyfriend. "You've not left the mentoring room in two days. I'm getting worried."

"That's nothing to how worried I am. Something might go wrong at any moment," Spool's voice was faintly slurring from fatigue as he spoke. "I can't leave. Something might get him in danger and I won't be able to sponsor anything to help…"

"Wait, you're going this all alone?" Lammy asked, surprised. "A one man team?"

"More like a one man army," Spool replied, yawning. "What else can I do? I'm the last district eight victor standing. Woof, Paige and Cecelia can't cover for me. They're not waking up from their own slumber ever again. It's just me."

"Not true, you've got me as well," Lammy said, moving her own chair closer to Spool's. "C'mon, take a rest Spool. I can keep watch while you get your recommended eight hours a night, mister."

"I know you can. I've always thought you were a damn good mentor," Spool said, managing a sleepy smile. "It's just, well… look. I can't sleep when Cupid and the girls look like _that_."

Spool pointed to one of the screens without any flair at all. Lammy felt her own heart breaking when she saw the state of Cupid's alliance. Eight days in the arena had not been kind to them at all; cuts, bruises and a layer of filth coated their young forms. They were getting thinner and weaker, their supplies failing to sustain all three of them. Cupid in particular was looking rather out of it as he staggered along, having shared out his last slices of bread with his friends.

His generosity was literally slowly killing him.

"Has our promise of a celebrity wedding gotten Cupid many points?" Lammy asked, taking hold of the sponsor pad to look through the item store.

"A few, yes," Spool had begun to lay his head upon Lammy's shoulder, sounding close to nodding off already. "People seem really excited for it, and maybe a wedding will distract them from all the suffering of watching this or… or something…"

"I can't wait to get married," Lammy lightly kissed Spool on the forehead. "I know we both procrastinate a lot, but this took a while even for us."

"Heh… yeah…" Spool said, more than halfway to dreamland.

"You have a good rest Spool, you need it," Lammy said, looking between the point total of sixty on screen and carefully deciding what items to buy. "I'll keep Cupid sustained in the meantime."

Spool's response was a weary snore. Lammy smiled, quickly confirming her choice to send Cupid a basket of bread, water bottles and a single pair of gloves.

As heart-warming as it was to see Cupid receive the gift live on camera and share it with his allies, Lammy wished he could be selfish just once. His rather unusual way of playing the Games wasn't good for his health, nor his chances of staying alive. He even gave the gloves to Melodie.

Still, his chances were infinitely better than those of Hellania. The hateful girl ended up with an arrow lodged through her throat, courtesy of Raptor and the crossbow he'd been sponsored. The remaining three members of the pack spread out to murder their ally's killer, but found nothing. Raptor was good at hiding.

Meanwhile Cupid was just too good at sharing.

* * *

The ninth day in the arena was the day everything changed for the worse.

At first Cupid had thought that he, Melodie and Ponty would be able to keep hiding from the most dangerous tributes for a few more days. They'd been getting a reasonable number of sponsor parachutes, so perhaps popularity would spare them from any pain?

They'd been spared from coming across Pietro, the boy having met his painful end when a tower of garbage collapsed and a rusted car fell right upon his skull.

Of course, popularity did not prevent Alvorn from finding the duo at sunset at the heart of a clearing surrounded by numerous sorts of wrecked vehicles. Something had changed about the boy since the bloodbath, Cupid was sure of it, and it wasn't just the hardened look in his cat eyes.

Cupid was gifted with sight and, of course, knew right away it was the fact Alvorn's prosthetic arm had been sponsored to him. Each finger of the fake hand was now very sharp, almost like a razor.

Almost exactly like a razor.

Alvorn was only thirteen and far from a warrior, but Cupid, Melodie and Ponty were similarly young and small. It allowed for quite the even battle to begin when Alvorn charged at them.

Unlike Ponty he wasn't able to be talked down and reasoned with. Cupid simply lacked the time for that.

This was proven when he stabbed the bladed fingers of his fake arm right into Ponty's guts. The poor girl let out a faint whimper and collapsed to the dirt, doomed to death's embrace within the minute.

Cupid saw that there was only one thing he could do and that was to run for his life, pulling Melodie along with him. He was loathe to admit it, but Ponty was beyond helping now.

The cannon had already fired.

"Run, run, run!" Cupid yelled, tearing through the garbage and filth. He dared not loosen his hold on Melodie for fear she'd trip and become prey for Alvorn.

"We're done for!" Melodie wailed, her voice barely audible over her own despair.

Alvorn had no comments to add. He was too focused on taking out his opponents without any distraction; it had been Olga's advice to not lose focus in a fight and that nothing was worse than letting one's guard down.

He was following her advice to the letter and it was working exceptionally well for him.

Cupid knew that the best thing he could do was try to lose Alvorn somehow. Instinct he couldn't even begin to explain as more than a gut feeling made him favour running through an area of wrecked cranes rather than the clearing full of broken cars.

For a while he was able to keep himself and Melodie ahead of Alvorn. Unknown to himself he was also getting them further away from the distant pack.

But nothing good, or even hopeful, seemed able to last forever. At least, not in the arena. Alvorn took careful aim with his knife and threw it hard.

It failed to hit Cupid.

Mainly because it had become embedded within Melodie's back.

"Ack!" Melodie cried out, the life within her already starting to leek out, much like the blood.

Cupid reacted with horror and despair. His own screams wouldn't be easy for the audience to forget, whether they were horrified or enjoyed hearing them. But he wasn't the sort to abandon somebody who wasn't beyond helping.

He resorted to carrying Melodie bridal style through the crane area, weaving between the machines. His legs felt ablaze, tired beyond measure, but fear of Alvorn and a refusal to leave Melodie behind was just enough for him to be able to bare it and keep moving.

They passed under a dormant crane arm, the sort that ended with a powerful magnet. Cupid sped under it without issue.

Alvorn tried to follow them, and that was his biggest mistake. His prosthetic arm was quickly pulled in by the magnet and left firmly stuck to it, Alvorn himself yanked up with it.

"Ack!" Alvorn yelled, having smacked himself into the magnet. "Shit!"

Cupid left Alvorn behind, stuck to the crane magnet. He knew the boy was not in major danger, not if he simply removed his prosthetic arm. Of course, he wasn't going to inform him of that. Not when he had a chance to escape the boy and find somewhere safe to hide. Somewhere he could help Melodie.

Alas, it was too late.

By the time Cupid had left Alvorn far behind and reached the peak of a solidified junk mountain Melodie was almost gone. She'd lost too much blood.

"Cupid…" Melodie's voice was soft, like that of a ghost.

"Hold on, it's not too late!" Cupid hardly believed his own words. Tears were streaming down his face. "Sponsors! Please! Melodie needs help! _**Please**_!"

"…Too late…" Melodie whispered, her face pale from the lack of blood beneath her skin. "…Cupid…?"

"Y-yeah?" Cupid said, trying his hardest not to break down.

"…Win…" Melodie whispered. "…Story…?"

"You w-want a s-story?" Cupid asked, wiping away his tears. "Alright… I'll do my best."

Cupid was hurting more than He had prior believed to be possible. But The fact he hurt meant he still drew breath. The same would not be able to be said for Melodie for much longer.

He'd grant her last request.

"Once upon a time… there was a land without districts. Without a Capitol. Without any terrible arenas, people wanting to hurt each other, people starving in the streets… there was no pain at all. It was only friends, family and love. Nobody wanted for anything, because… b-b-because they already had everything they wanted," Cupid began with a sniffle.

It took Cupid a moment to gather his bearings and resume talking. He wanted to weep, but he couldn't waste even a second. Not when Melodie was almost dead.

"It sounds like… a nice place…" Melodie whispered.

"It is," Cupid agreed. "And… and this land without districts? It's real… it's real. So they say, those with a pure soul and kindness in their hearts will all get to visit it one day. Forever. Imagine, a place full of… of love… of friendship… maybe dying isn't so bad if such a place is ready to welcome you. A few minutes, if that, of pain and suddenly you're in a place where you'd want for nothing."

Cupid knew he was laying it on a bit thick, but it seemed to be making Melodie smile. Weakly so, but still a smile.

"There was once a girl, sweet and wholesome. She was friendly and never hurt anybody… she died well before her time," Cupid found it to be a struggle to not breakdown on the spot. "She ended up spending forever in this sacred land, this place of pure peace. You know what he best part of this story was?"

"Wh… what?" Melodie mumbled.

"That girl was you," Cupid whispered. "You're going to be alright. You'll be somewhere without pain and only with kindness."

Melodie smiled as she heard these words.

The cannon fired a moment later.

Cupid broke, howling and crying loudly. His friends were all dead and he was all alone…

* * *

The family interview tradition had not been broken for these special, sadistic Games. While Melodie's family had literally walked right in and right out again upon Melodie's death, howling in grief as they went, the other tributes had their families and some of their friends bought in to talk them up to the nation.

For some, it was truly the only hope for sponsors they had left.

Because Cupid's family were all dead, and the only friends he otherwise had were a few orphans who were exceptionally camera shy, it had been decided that Spool would stand in for Cupid's relatives. He was already mentoring him, and in the most technical of terms this put him into a sort of father-figure position.

Spool, tired as he was, believed himself to be more than up to the task. If there was one thing he knew how to do it was to sell something to an audience.

Selling the greatest 'product' of all, his tribute, wouldn't be hard.

The order of interviews was decided purely at random. Spool watched from his backstage seat at the other interview were carried out one by one. He had to admit to himself, few among those interviewed by Caesar had much in the way of stage presence. It was like they'd never even been on camera before.

Then again, Spool conceded to himself, many of them probably hadn't for any meaningful length of time.

Tallulah's father was, of course, dead. Her mother and older sister were still alive, however, and did nothing but scream and snarl at the 'district monkeys' for having ruined everything and destroyed the natural balance. Their vow to retake power and make district hunting a year-round event did not sway anybody towards supporting their atrocious daughter. If Tallulah was to win then it'd all come down to her own ingenuity because no help was coming.

Stinn's parents, both cruel high ranking peacekeepers, were released from prison for the sake of the interviews. They laid out how Stinn was objectively the strongest tribute left and had barely taken any real injuries so far. He was all but certain to win, they believed, and would make the 'district cowards' pay for what they had done. Again, the hatred of cruel relatives had cost tribute any possible sponsors.

Alvorn's mother was a despised person for buying out victors for sex so often in the past, but at least she had the common sense to not insult those now in power. This and Alvorn's two little sisters talking about their happy memories with him growing up meant that the one armed boy wasn't condemned just yet. No more than he already was at any rate.

Cnaeus's family, all thugs and graffiti hooligans like he was, had little in the way of politeness for the nation. What they did have, however, was impressive artwork they promised to send to whoever would sponsor their boy the supplies he would need. They thought that, once he managed to get rid of Stinn and Tallulah he'd be the odds on favourite. It was clear, aggressive as they were, this family was worried.

Raptor's only family left were two brothers, and they shared his arrogance and love of popularity. They did their absolute best to appeal to the Capitol and point out how Raptor had been king of his sector of the great city for damn good reason. Not to mention that he'd not needed any sort of alliance to get thus far; he was damn capable flying solo. He was the one to support if the audience were smart.

Claudius Templesmith had been briefly taken out of his jail cell to hype up his nephew Miles. Alas, things went downhill barely more than a minute into the interview. He snarled how it wasn't fair, he seethed over his own destroyed fame, he raged that the districts were monsters for not knowing their place… and to top it off he punched Caesar in the face, finishing with a hard spit at his former best friend. He was disgusted that Caesar had, all along in his own subtle way, felt bad for the districts.

Once Caesar had gotten some ice applied to his bruise Spool was called up for his turn. It felt surreal, sitting down for an interview with Caesar upon the same stage he'd had his pre-Games and post-Games interviews years and years ago.

This time Caesar actually knew his name.

"Welcome to the show Spool," Caesar said, shaking Spool's hand. "After all these years, after all our interviews and various meetings on and off of Games season, finally I get to call you by your true name."

"Did you ever suspect the truth?" Spool asked, managing a quiet chuckle.

"Honestly? Not even for a moment. You pulled off, quite literally, the ultimate scam against the Capitol. Or, I suppose, the 'Old Capitol'," Caesar said, impressed. His gaze soon turned sombre. "Well, in any case, this interview isn't about you this time around."

"Indeed not," Spool agreed. "It's about Cupid."

The screens behind the pair changed from displaying flashy lights to showing live footage of Cupid in the arena. It was getting dark as nightfall loomed ever near and Cupid himself was wandering aimlessly through a large crater area, one filled with the wreckage of various broken cars. The boy seemed like he was emotionally dead inside.

"Cupid is unlike any other tribute of the Games ever seen. We've seen orphans, we've seen those reluctant to kill or whom preach about kindness. Thing is, all of them gave in by the end. That, or they were cut down by other tributes or mutts before they could really say much of anything," Spool glanced off to the side. "Naturally, Snow saw to it that there was no chance of a tribute being able to unite people through kindness. He wanted us all split apart by hatred."

"In hindsight I think we'd all agree that you're absolutely correct," Caesar agreed, sombre. "I've noticed that Cupid doesn't just preach kindness, mercy and compassion – he practises it as well. At no point has he lost the moral high ground."

"I think that makes him somebody really worth watching and even learning from," Spool continued. "It's time for change. Just look at the reactions to these Games and you'll see that there's already been lots of change; nobody is enjoying them, nobody sees it as anything but punishment… well, in the Capitol anyway."

There was a brief pause.

"Look, it's almost time for the fighting to end. _Really_ end. Maybe having somebody like Cupid win is the perfect way to start off this new golden age of peace," Spool suggested. He turned to look at the cameras. "It could all happen if you sponsor him. In fact, it's a two for one deal. If Cupid wins then the promised celebrity wedding between Lammy and I will become reality. Everybody loves a wedding, right?"

"I can't say I disagree," Caesar said, managing to chuckle. "I think I speak for the many when I say Cupid is popular. You're right Spool, people have really taken a shine to his kindness. His fanbase might even rival yours."

"Come on Caesar, let's keep things realistic here," Spool joked. "But real talk, Cupid can win. You guys at home clearly want him to or, well, object to his victory the least of the remaining candidates? Why not help him reach it?"

"I know that's intended as a rhetorical question, but there is one reason that holds people back," Caesar said, carefully. "Cupid refuses to fight. He simply will not do it. With only one victor allowed, how could he overcome somebody like Stinn or Tallulah?"

Spool pondered this for a moment. It wasn't like Caesar or indeed anybody else who may bring this point up was wrong. Cupid couldn't win a fight, not when he refused to take part in one to begin with. He couldn't run forever.

Still, surely there was a better answer than that…

"How? I'd say the same way Spud manages to outlive many much stronger children in the Sixty Sixth Games. The same way Paige managed to stay alive over children of more solid muscles and mental states in the Thirtieth Games. The same way Pliny slept her way through ninety nine percent of the Second Games. The same way Lammy won despite never seeing another child after the first five minutes in the Fortieth Games. The same way Platinum won after being stuck under th arena of the Forty Second Games for around five weeks. The same way so many of the victors, living and dead, won their Games," Spool said. He let the silence hang in the air for a moment, always being one for a bit of drama. "They had a certain spark about them. Some flicker, a glimmer even, of sheer determination that saved them. That's why Cupid can win, even without any kills at all. Because he is filled with _determination_!"

Caesar applauded Spool, thoroughly impressed by his words. Were they a bit overdramatic? Perhaps. Was this a bad thing? Caesar thought not!

"Thanks for coming in for the interview Spool. It's appreciated, and I am certain that Cupid appreciates it," Caesar said, shaking Spool's hand.

"By all means, it's a pleasure to, uh, cover for his family while they're unable to be here," Spool said, a certain sort of bittersweet to his tone.

"Oh, hang on," Caesar cupped his ear. He sighed, his mood plummeting right away. "I'm getting word that a fight has broken out. We're required to show the footage."

For one terrifying moment Spool thought Cupid was about to die.

But right before the screen changed he saw Cupid getting into the trunk of one of the broken cars, safe for the time being.

The screen soon displayed a furious battle going on near a massive broken crane that had fallen upon its side. Stinn and Raptor were duelling, sword against crowbar, while Tallulah and Cnaeus stood back to watch. It was clear that Stinn was steadily gaining the upper hand.

"Help me!" Raptor screamed, though it wasn't his family that he cried towards. It was Cnaeus. "Cnaeus, please! You can't take them on alone, you need me! Please!"

Cnaeus made no move to do anything. If he was paying much heed or attention to Raptor's words then he didn't show it. Much like Tallulah he showed only a gaze of indifference.

In moments it was over. A nasty slash of the sword cut open a large portion of Raptor's torso, blood spilling everywhere. A moment later Stinn grabbed the fallen crowbar and bought it down onto the broken boy's skull.

Neither Caesar nor Spool could hide their wincing nor their hisses of pity and revulsion. The cannon boomed and then there were six.

Caesar was glad that the show was finally closing in on the 'curtain call'. Once more and never again.

Spool felt sicker by the second. Few tributes remained, but that only meant it was getting more and more likely for Cupid to be the next one to die. What was left for him to do?

Simple. Study the footage, figure out a perfect plan and be the best mentor he possible could be, that was what.

* * *

When Cupid woke up he did not know that there were only five tributes left, including himself. He'd slept through the cannon that marked Cnaeus's gruesome death during the night. The boy had tried to kill his allies while they were sleeping, but both had only feigned sleep. They'd not trusted him to stay loyal after Raptor's last desperate plea.

What Cupid did know was that a sponsor had just landed outside of the car. The tiny parachute contained only a single note. Cupid read it, quickly going pale.

'Run! The mutts are coming! Head past the broken hovercraft and don't stop until you get to the other side of the bridge. You have a few seconds at best – RUN!

\- Spool'

Cupid abandoned the letter and ran for his life. Passing the nearby hovercraft at a high speed was the easy part.

Escaping the hoard of rabid dog mutts that had appeared from seemingly nowhere was going to be the hard part. One trip, just a few seconds of slowing down and Cupid knew he would be fated to become dog food.

Cupid wasn't just a reluctant fighter, but one who knew he'd be awful at it if he tried. What Cupid excelled at, other than empathy, was running away. Right now his skill at making a hasty retreat was working in his favour. He ran under the dull light of the gloomy morning sky, a ferocious din of barking and snarling meeting his ears. The dogs were close…

Soon enough Cupid was close to the point where he'd collapse, physically unable to keep on moving. But fate had smiled upon him that morning. The bridge mentioned in the letter was right ahead, built over a deep drop into a river of radioactive fallout.

With what little strength he had left Cupid ran across the bridge. He barely made it to the other side.

The hoard of dog mutts charged across the bridge as well, though they certainly did not make it. Their combined weight caused the bridge to collapse, the entire hoard of monstrous canines falling to their deaths in the toxic slime.

After a minute of sheer wheezing and pained gasping Cupid noticed another parachute was falling towards him. This one, mercifully, was bigger than the first one. A large bottle of water was clearly attached to it. A bottle that was halfway drained before Cupid even paid any mind to the letter that came with it.

'Good job escaping the mutts. I know you're hurting badly, inside and out, but you have to keep going. Sooner or later the new gamemakers are going to drive all of you together and they have plenty more mutts left to unleash. You have to keep moving.

You can do this. I believe in you without question. You can do this. But before you can win, you'll need to heed my advice – find the factory building. If there's anywhere a finale is going to happen then it's probably there. All I can tell you is that it's roughly west of your current location.

Good luck. I'll be watching over you.

\- Spool'

Cupid spent twenty minutes getting his breath back before he managed to stagger up to his feet again and set off in the direction Spool mentioned. The sun always rose in the arena of any Hunger Games – aside the ones in caverns or endless night - in the same direction it did on the outside world. He knew he had the right direction, more or less.

The only problem would be not getting himself killed before he managed to reach his destination. Danger was sure to lurk around every corner along the way, and Cupid was not convinced the factory was going to be any safer than the rest of the arena was.

"I'm so alone… I'm so afraid…" Cupid wiped away his tears and snot on his sleeve. "…I believe you Spool. I'll try to believe in myself too."

And so, desperately trying to keep his own hope alive, Cupid set off into the deeper depths of the garbage dump.

Rain began to fall.

* * *

Spool honestly believed that the only reason he had not had a nervous breakdown yet was the support from Tag and Lammy. It was now the fourteenth day of the Games and it was clear that it wouldn't be long before the gamemakers would go about starting the finale.

Surely it wouldn't be more than three days before the Hunger Games ended once and for all.

Spool sat on the sofa of the motel he was staying in, his gaze practically glued to the screen. Tag sat to his left and Lammy sat to his right.

"Bro, you need to take a break," Tag said.

"We can cover for you while you get some sleep, honest," Lammy insisted.

"No… can't rest… need to stay…" Spool was totally out of it.

Only five tributes were left and, honestly, Spool doubted this would remain true within the next hour or two. Cupid was wandering alone through an area filled with pits of toxic waste, Miles was hiding out inside the wreckage of a hovercraft, Stinn and Tallulah were silently hunting near a filthy, festering lake of sewage and as for Alvorn…

It wasn't a pretty side.

Spool watched the screen display the young boy. He'd been immobile for the past two hours, having consumed some contaminated water two days prior. His thirst had been bad enough for him to chance taking a drink, but it was a chance that certainly wasn't paying off.

It was doubtful he had an hour left; his innards had been poisoned far too badly for a recovery to be possible, even with a sponsor gift. It wasn't like he had enough sponsor points for such an item to be sent in anyway, nor the ability to use his hands and thus inject himself to begin with.

The miserable sight had led to Spool filling up half of a bucket with vomit.

"Spool, bro, you can't keep doing this to yourself," Tag said, wincing as his brother vomited into the bucket yet again. "We can cover for you, seriously. The other mentors have people taking shifts for them when they need to sleep. You don't have to do this by yourself."

"But… but he's the one assigned to me…" Spool was almost too tired to even manage a yawn. "He's only there because of the paper slip I picked…"

"All the same, you need rest," Lammy insisted. "You'll only hurt yourself if you go on like this. Just three hours at least. Please? For me?"

Spool was silent. He seemed like he was ready to fold, or at least agree to hear his girlfriend and brother out some more. His gaze swiftly returned to the TV when Cupid entered the frame.

Spool was much like the nation as he watched Cupid kneel beside Alvorn – silent.

For one terrible moment Spool thought Cupid was going to finally give in and make his first kill. Perhaps Cupid believed it wouldn't count if the victim was basically dead already.

Spool soon saw he should have had a bit more faith in Cupid. The boy made no move to attack Alvorn in any way. Their past confrontation and how Alvorn had been responsible for the deaths of Ponty and Melodie was exactly that… past.

"It'll be alright soon," Cupid said, laying a hand upon Alvorn's shoulder. "The pain will be over soon."

Alvorn was past the point of being able to respond.

"…I forgive you for what happened with Ponty and Melodie," Cupid looked so very tired, like he wanted to cry. He didn't let it show. "You just acted a bit hastily. I can forgive a hasty person."

It went on this way for quite some time. Alvorn would remain unresponsive, barely conscious and alive, while Cupid would remain where he was and say nice things to his former opponent.

Cupid had no goal other than ensuring somebody was there with Alvorn when he died. That somebody cared. That somebody forgave the things he'd been forced to do.

Spool was proud of Cupid.

The number of dry eyes across the nation was much fewer than originally foreseen when the cannon finally went off. Cupid himself was weeping as he crossed Alvorn's arms over, closed his eyes and resumed his long walk through the arena.

Spool's only comfort in this painful moment was that the factory was very close to Cupid's current location. It couldn't gave been more than a mile away.

Better yet, Cupid had spotted the silhouette of the factory in the distance of the gloomy, rainy arena and was making a run towards it.

Spool relented. Cupid would be alright, at least for a few hours. He could trust Tag and Lammy to watch over him for at least that long.

Tag ended up watching over Cupid on his own for a few hours while Spool settled down to get some sleep, Lammy laying herself beside him as a sort of guarding presence. They lay in comfort for just over twenty hours. Twelve hours of nothing but rest and the sound of each other's soft breathing.

So away from the world were they that they didn't realise the tribute count had fallen from four to three. Stinn and Tallulah had gotten into a fight, the former finally sick of the latter's constant ranting about how the districts were insects who didn't know their place.

"It's that kind of thinking that got us stuck in this hellhole!" he had screamed.

The duel was short, savage and brutal. Stinn took a nasty cut to his left arm, but Tallulah had been uppercut into a pool of toxic waste. She'd died quickly, after much screaming of course, but her corpse had already begun to rapidly mutate. In some ways it was akin to Claudia's mutation back in the Thirty Second Games.

Stinn had paid the scene no mind, spending his time wrapping his fresh arm wound in bandages. He did so in mere moments and began to mutter to himself, trying to work out who else was left.

He had laughed when he realised it was just Miles and Cupid. Not a sadistic laugh nor one of triumph. No, it was one of pure relief. He had believed himself to be all but certain to win and finally go home.

It was a few hours after that when Spool and Lammy were awoken from their shared slumber, a rapid knocking striking the door in quick repetition. Lammy moved herself over to the door while Spool remained in the limbo between awakening and sleep. She opened the door, revealing Haymitch on the other side.

"C'mon lovebirds, you're needed down in the mentoring room," Haymitch said, tightly clutching a flask of whisky in one hand. "As in, needed right now."

"Why?" Spool sat up, practically flying over to the door. "What's going on? Is Cupid alright?"

"For now," Haymitch replied. "But it's down to just three kids. Yours, Stinn and Miles. They're ending the Games now. We'll have the final victor in an hour, maybe less."

Spool sped past Haymitch and took off to the mentoring room, leaving the second Quell victor and Lammy far behind him.

* * *

Cupid had only been at the factory for a few hours before everything started to go to hell. At first the factory had been silent, aside the massive rainstorm outside with the accompanying thunder and lightning. The tall iron walls of the main factory building were silent, as was all of the dormant machinery and crates left around.

All that remained alive were the flickering lights and the raised conveyor belt outside the building that carried a seemingly endless amount of junk to a grinder for disposal. It had granted Cupid the time he needed to catch his breath and rest up for whatever the next terror he'd face would be.

Cupid had been midway through drawing a chalk picture of his parents on the wall of the factory when it became very apparent what the next terror was.

Or, more accurately, the final terror.

One of the large windows upon the wall smashed to pieces as Miles was thrown through it, bleeding badly from cuts all over his body. His death was certain. It was similarly certain that it would happen very soon.

Miles had only one word to say when he spotted Cupid, talking in how the smaller boy was still in relatively good shape all things considered, especially after over two weeks in the arena.

"Run…"

A moment later Stinn leapt through the broken remains of the window and bought his sword down through Miles' neck. The cannon boomed instantaneously.

Stinn panted for breath for a few long moments. His leg leg was bloodied and he sported a few bruises on his face, yet he'd certainly ended up much better off than Miles had. Such was the likely outcome all along, Stinn being older, bigger and much stronger than the dead boy beside him.

He only noticed Cupid when the boy made a run for the nearby stairs leading to the roof of the tribute building. Cupid sped up when he heard Stinn yelling behind him and faster still when Stinn began to chase him in hot pursuit.

As painful as Stinn's leg wound was it clearly wasn't making it impossible for him to sprint after his final opponent.

"Get back here!" Stinn yelled. "It's the final battle of the final Hunger Games! Let's finish this, you and I!"

* * *

Spool gnawed at his fist in the mentoring room, watching the screen with grim eyes. It displayed the same thing as all other screens within the nation – the final battle.

The _ **final**_ battle.

"Run, run, run," Spool muttered, almost swaying on the spot.

He watched as Cupid made it to the roof of the factory, slamming the door shut behind him. Stinn was too close for Cupid to have a chance to barricade the door, forcing him to keep moving. But being on the roof, there was nowhere for him to run.

Nowhere except the conveyor belt of garbage.

"Come on, make the jump!" Spool yelled.

Cupid, of course, did not hear Spool. Nonetheless, he seemed to have gotten the same idea. Right as Stinn smashed the door open Cupid ran for the side of the building, making a flying leap off of the roof and onto the junk filled conveyor belt.

Stinn did the same a moment later, managing to make the jump but howling in pain upon landing. His leg wound was worsening, no doubt sending pain surging throughout his body.

The pain was not enough for him to cease the fight. Though he'd lost his hold upon the sword and dropped it over the side of conveyor belt he didn't seem to care about this. He still had his fists and plenty of junk to use as improvised weaponry.

Spool could only watch, helpless, as Cupid tried to scramble away further down the conveyor belt, while Stinn grabbed hold of all the junk he could get his hands on in an attempt to land a lethal blow against Cupid. Bricks, pipes, car parts, a mangled toaster and even an old Fiona and Lawrence Holo-Vid were all sent hurtling towards Cupid. Only the smaller boy's size and agility – aided along by Stinn's pain – prevented any of it from hitting him.

"Come on!" Johanna yelled. "Kill each other! Kill!"

"Mutual takedown!" Crimson added, having loved every second of her revenge. "No victor at all!"

Spool tried his best to ignore the pair. As much as he completely understood their desire for blood and revenge, it wasn't his game. No, he wanted his boy to make it home safe and sound.

But how could Cupid overcome a powerful young man like Stinn? Especially as he was clearly still refusing to fight.

"Cupid, it's alright to fight in self-defence! You don't have to play nice anymore!" Spool pleaded, pounding his fist upon his desk. "Come on, fight him!"

But Cupid refused.

Even now he would not abandon his morals.

Even now he would not bend the knee to violence.

Even after everything he would not do anything other than be himself.

* * *

Cupid's heart pounding so hard that it felt like a monster, maybe some sort of mutt, was trying to burst out from within his organs. All this and the strong urge to vomit was making it impossibly hard to evade Stinn for long. As much as Cupid wanted to live he knew he couldn't kill Stinn. He didn't even have the nerve to hurt the boy.

In fact, Cupid was pretty sure he lacked the ability to do so anyway. He was tiny, while Stinn was a sheer powerhouse; one only hindered by a badly wounded right leg.

The intense rainfall had dampened much of the belt he and Stinn stood upon. Keeping balance was hard, enough so that both of them almost went over the side at one point. Only by grabbing for each other's hand did they prevent a double death.

Stinn wasn't in the mood for thanking him. He simply punched Cupid in the face and, after grabbing hold of the smaller boy's waist, threw him right over his shoulders and behind himself with a crash.

"Owwwww, ahhhhhh…" Cupid tried not to whimper too loudly as he rolled over and tried to stand up, blood leaking out of his nose.

Cupid dropped down again as Stinn resumed tossing heavy items of junk at him. The tougher boy was in a frenzy of rage, desperation and sheer desire to get the hell out of the arena.

Cupid dropped and rolled several times over, chunks of metal vehicle parts and heavy pipes sailing over his head each time. Just one good hit would have likely been enough to knock him out.

"Please, let's stop…" Cupid choked out. "It doesn't have to be this way!"

"It's the only way it can be!" Stinn roared. "Only one of us can go home! One! I'm not dying!"

"And I won't hurt you!" Cupid wheezed, moving so that he was kneeled over on just one knee. "But I won't volunteer to die either, not now. Not anymore."

A few more volleys of junk were thrown before Stinn screamed from the pain in his leg once again. All of the rapid movement and pressure he'd been putting upon it had caused something to split and more blood to ooze out. The sight made Stinn collapse and Cupid vomit over the side of the conveyor belt.

The pair weren't silent or still for long. Stinn grabbed the next item on the conveyor belt, a large sledgehammer, and swung it at Cupid.

He missed by barely half an inch.

Cupid grabbed the closest item on the conveyor belt, a fairly big flatscreen TV, and held it in front of himself like a shield.

As lightning filled the sky and the rain fell ever harder the duel continued. Stinn smashed the hammer at Cupid in a variety of angles, but Cupid blocked each one of them with the flatscreen TV.

* * *

Spool noticed what the final two tributes had not.

The end of the conveyor belt was looming near, and with it so too was the deadly grinder that awaited them after a thirty foot drop.

Lammy tightly held Spool's hand for support. She wasn't naïve enough to believe Cupid had the battle on lock. Stinn was hurt, but still stronger.

Pacifism could only take a tribute so far.

"Come on Cupid! You can do this!" Spool yelled, almost pleadingly.

It was to Spool's surprise, and not an unwelcome one either, that several of the other victors echoed his plea. All of them who cared about the Capitol children as people and not as a symbol of revenge, or apathy, were in favour of the kind pacifist winning.

But that meant nothing when Stinn finally bashed the flatscreen TV away and raised the sledgehammer over his head. A flicker of relief filled the eyes of the strong, bloodied boy.

The relief vanished when Cupid made a desperate lunge forwards, darting through the space between Stinn's legs and rolling out the other side. Stinn lost his balance mid-swing and slipped over the wet ground. When he fell to the ground the sledgehammer fell over the side and his leg seemed to split further. It was a true testament to his ability to withstand pain that he hadn't passed out yet.

"Stop it!" Cupid shouted. " _ **STOP**_! Fighting isn't gonna solve anything! What if we just didn't fight? What if we refused? What can they do? They're meant to be better than Snow, better than the Capitol… better than us! Why punish two children who don't want to hurt each other? What message does that send to the nation?"

"It won't work," Stinn hissed, coughing out blood. "It never works. That's what my parents taught me. The only thing those district savages understand is force. It might be the only thing you understand as well."

"No, the things I understand are what I've been saying all along," Cupid said, backing away from Stinn. He paused, hearing the whirring of the grinder not far behind him. "That we can all live in peace. That hope can beat fear. That hurting people is wrong!"

"Shut up!" Stinn roared, for a moment sounding more like a mutt than a young man. "Die already! Just… die! Please, I just want to go home…"

Broken as he looked the fact was that Stinn was still an excellent fighter. With savagery in his eyes and blood flowing down his leg he made a flying tackle towards Cupid.

* * *

Spool vomited at the same time Cupid did.

Stinn's leg wound had clearly been much worse beneath the ruined fabric of his pants than anybodsy had realised. Cupid had leapt to the side to evade the tackle, landing upon the solid ground of a platform beside the end of the conveyor belt. One with a ladder connected that led down to the safety of the ground.

That had been all it took for Stinn to land terribly on a particularly sharp and solid chunk of what might have once been half of an engine. One instant he seemed ready to simply stand up and continue the fight.

The next moment he was turning horribly pale and screaming like a madman. The impact had practically severed the lower half of his right leg, the once strong limb now only connected by a few strands of flesh.

Somewhere in the boy's terrified, agonised screams was the realisation that the conveyor belt was at its end and a terrible fate awaited anybody who would go over the edge.

"HELP ME!" Stinn pleaded.

The mentors in the control room watched the last moments of the final battle of the very last Hunger Games in awestruck silence. None of them, from Crimson and Olga to Annie and Crown said a word. No, they just watched the screen in silence as Cupid turned to face Stinn.

He desperately tried to reach out a hand to help his opponent.

Alas, he was too late.

Spool felt his heart breaking over the tormented look upon Cupid's young face. He was far from the only one who felt this way.

He was also far from the only person who had to swallow back their own vomit as Stinn was sent over the edge of the conveyor belt and down to the grinder below. It only took a few seconds for him to be ground into bloody paste, but it was a memory that surely never leave the nation. The final death of the Games being so vile seemed almost the perfect way to hammer in the message that the Games were wrong, always had been wrong and always would be wrong.

Then there was only silence.

Then there was a polite, soft applause. It was a few moments before Spool realised that the applause was directed his way. It, and Lammy tenderly hugging him close, was something of a mood booster, though Spool was lost as to why everybody was doing so.

"Why… why are you applauding me?" Spool asked, his hands shaking as he spoke.

"Because, Spool…" Olga paused, faintly breathing in and out. "It appears you just mentored a victor. The last that there will ever be. Congratulations."

Spool froze, the realisation hitting him like a stack of bricks. As awful as Stinn's death was, it didn't change the fact the cannon that went with it confirmed something to be true.

That Cupid had won and done so without making a single kill, or even causing a single wound. He had kept to his vow of pacifism no matter what and lived to tell the tale.

Spool sank to his knees, relieved. Lammy sank down with him, gently letting her overwhelmed boyfriend shake in her soft grasp.

"Lammy…?" Spool began.

"Yes? What is it Spool?" Lammy asked.

"…Looks like we kinda have to get married now, huh? Cupid did just win, so…" Spool managed to let out a laugh, one that got increasingly loud before trailing off into silence. "So, uh… will you marry me?"

Lammy's response of a kiss was answer enough for Spool. But things such as a wedding would have to wait at least a while.

There was a new victor who needed his presence sooner rather than later.

* * *

Cupid wheezed and panted, tears in his eyes as he leaned against the firm metal railing atop the raised platform. The rainstorm was finally ending and the sun was once again coming out to shine across the miles and miles of foul garbage.

A golden, almost angelic sort of light was cast down upon him.

The trumpets rang loud and proud for all to hear, the very last time that such a sound would be witnessed by the nation.

"What… what…" Cupid seemed hardly able to believe that, at long last, the nightmare had finally come to a close.

The Hunger Games were _**over**_.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," Caesar's voice echoed across the arena. "May I present to you the victor of the Final Hunger Games, Capitol Punishment… Cupid Sol, representing Team Nine and the Capitol!"

That was when Cupid finally broke. He finally let himself cry, unleashing all the pain and emotion he'd tried his hardest to hold back in favour of helping the others either survive or die peacefully.

But now he was the only one left. There was nobody left to cry for but himself.

The hovercraft slowly descended to collect the small boy from his prison and to take him back home where he belonged. But as Cupid eventually boarded the hovercraft and let the people aboard start to help him there was just one small thought he couldn't ignore.

A thought that honestly scared him.

Where even was his home? The orphanage? Was he to simply return there, traumatised, and act like there was simply nothing wrong at all?

That was no way to live… but, what other choice did he have?

* * *

With the amazing medical technology of the Capitol it wasn't long before Cupid had been deemed ready for his post-Games interview. But compared to normal it wasn't triumphant, fun or something for the audience to go gaga over.

It had been painfully raw and real.

The recap footage had the audience feeling violated and ashamed. Cupid, unlike all victors prior, was not forced to hide the way he felt about the nightmare he'd been lucky enough to survive. Caesar was free to paint it as the tragedy that it was and strived to insist the nation had to move on from hatred and conflict. Otherwise the events of the garbage dump arena and all prior would simply come back, only worse and nationwide.

Not a single person across Panem wanted another war like the one that had just ended.

Cupid shied away under the eyes of the nation, but not too much so for him to be unable to speak the words that so badly needed to be said.

"The Hunger Games were a terrible thing. They were created by truly awful, terrible people who loved nothing more than hurting people, especially kids who couldn't fight back. That's not normal. That's wrong! But now they're dead and… the Games are over. It's time for us all to play something else. Maybe we could just… sit down and play the game where we're all friends with each other? So many people are hurting and so much is broken. I won, but… I'd already lost everything. I have nothing left besides the prize money, and that cannot buy my family back. But so many of you still have people who love you and people that you love in return. Why waste precious days with fighting? Those are days you could spend with loved ones and being glad you're alive to see a future where we just, well… don't fight or hate each other. Panem wasn't a great country, it was awful, but it doesn't have to be any longer. Our world could be so much better. And… in this world of ours, there's nothing better than love. We need it now more than ever."

Spool had been proud to hear these words coming from the boy he mentored into a victor, but when he went backstage to talk to Cupid and really try to be there for him he'd already vanished.

The security were apologetic, but it didn't change the fact the last victor there would ever be had somehow done a runner and disappeared.

"Where do you think he went?" Lammy asked, having tagged along with Spool.

"I think I might have an idea," Spool replied, already heading for the door. "C'mon, he can't have gotten too far ahead."

"Should we bring people with us?" Lammy asked, following behind Spool.

"I think right now it'd be better if only a small number of us were around Cupid at once," Spool said as he headed outside. "Us two will have to do."

* * *

Cupid sat all alone on the roof of the tribute building, blankly staring out at the distant sunset. He'd been there a while already and remained unmoving, only staring and occasionally wiping away a single tear.

He didn't react when the elevator opened nor when Spool and Lammy sat down either side of him. For a while the three victors sat without saying a word.

"I'm sorry," Spool eventually said. "I know you're alive now, but… it was all my fault you got sent to the arena. I plucked that damn paper slip."

"You couldn't have known it was mine," Cupid mumbled.

"Cupid's right, Spool. Besides, if it wasn't Cupid then it would have been another child. Maybe one who wouldn't have won like Cupid did. We both voted no, the Games weren't our fault," Lammy gave Spool a gentle look. "You need to forgive yourself."

"I'll try," Spool replied. He looked to Cupid with a warm smile. "But before I even think of that… Cupid, you're the victor. This night is all about you. How are you feeling, honestly?"

"Honestly?" Cupid was silent for a moment. "Not great. I mean, I feel really scared and I'm never going to forget what I saw, the ways all the other children died. But, I feel lost for than anything else."

"Lost?" Spool asked. "Lost how?"

Cupid gave an awkward, timid shrug,

"Yeah. Lost. What do I do now? I won the Games… so, what now? Nothing has really changed for me at all… well, actually, the nightmares I'll be having are new. But beyond that…" Cupid shrugged again. "My family are still dead. My home is still burnt to the ground. All my possessions I once had are still destroyed. I'm alive, but I don't have anything to go back to."

"You have your whole life ahead of you-" Lammy began.

"So? I'm still going back to where I was. An orphanage. That's my future… I guess I can buy some stuff with the victor stipend, but money cannot buy happiness. It can't buy love. It can't buy the things that matter," Cupid let the tears freely fall down his face. "Again… it can't but my parents back."

Cupid covered his face, sniffling.

"People always told me I'm really in tune with the feelings of others. They said I always knew what to say to other people and how to help them. But, I can't even help myself. I just want my family back," Cupid started to quietly sob. "I don't want to be alone…"

Spool and Lammy glanced at each other. They didn't need words or any hand movements. Indeed, it only took a second long glance and a single nod for them to both be in full agreement of what to do.

There was only one proper course of action to take in light of everything that had happened.

"You're never going to be alone again Cupid," Spool vowed. "I promise here and now that it'll never happen, and I always keep my promises."

"I agree. There's no chance of you being alone or having to go back to an orphanage for the rest of your days," Lammy agreed. "We'd never allow it."

Cupid looked between his mentor and Lammy, wiping away a few of his tears.

"What do you mean?" he mumbled.

Spool put a hand upon Cupid's shoulder. He looked down at the small boy with pride and warmth.

"Well, if you would be alright with it, and in the end it is your choice alone… you could stay with us," Spool offered. "Lammy and I, we could be your new family. Not so much to replace your first one, but to 'cover for them' while they're gone."

"That's right," Lammy agreed. "You're one of us now, a victor… but foremost, you're a young boy. All young boys need a family, don't they? We'd be honoured to take you in as our own if you'd like us to. We're still looking into where we'll live, but it wouldn't be a problem."

"Exactly. Picture this… a future where us three live in peace, all together and without any problems at all. We'd be happy. Especially Lammy, she's wanted kids for a while but since we're both getting on a bit…" Spool laughed, even as Lammy reached to bop him on the back of his head.

"Cheeky!" Lammy huffed, though her smile betrayed her amusement. "So, how about it Cupid? I know we're not known each other for ages, all things considered, but I know you and Spool get along and, well… would you want us to be your guardians."

"Your new parents?" Spool continued. "…We could get ice cream!"

"Really Spool?" Lammy asked, shaking her head.

"What? Kids love ice cream," Spool insisted.

Both Spool and Lammy were silenced when Cupid, weeping tears of happiness rather than sorrow, pulled both of them in for a rather tight group hug. They quickly adapted to this, gently taking Cupid into a shared embrace.

"Yes," Cupid whispered. "Yes… thank you…"

In response to this Spool and Lammy gently tightened the embrace.

The three stayed like this for a while, sharing the most tender of family hugs as the sun gently set in the horizon, its golden glow cast upon the three victors.

The sun had finally, _finally_ set upon the era of the Capitol's cruel regime and that of the Hunger Games.

It was time for the dawn of a new era to begin at long last.

An era of peace.

* * *

There go guys, the last victor on the list has finally been crowned! Hope you all liked Cupid's journey in this particularly horrible and toxic arena. It's hard enough to win Games you thought you'd never enter, but harder still to do that and win without killing a single person. But it finally happened, a 'pacifist run' at the very last chance for there to be one. What better outcome for the era of tentative peace that can finally begin? Most Capitol Games stories I've seen tend to favour either an old tribute of sympathetic background, or perhaps Snow's granddaughter winning. Never did I see a romance blogger take home the crown, and their life, but now it's happened. Hope it met your expectations. :)

This time I can honestly say this was the very last Games of the lot. So now, there's really just one thing left to go. The epilogue! See you guys again come the final chapter. It's almost time to say goodbye to these characters, at least until they pop up in some other HG story I write, haha. Stay tuned!

* * *

 **Stats**

 **District 1:** Peridot Gaudy (8th Games), Crystal McCree (14th Games), Bronze Marley (19th Games), Crown Martins (24th Games), Dollar Dettwieller (32nd Games), Mascara Court (41st Games), Platinum Twist (44th Games), Gloss Lord (63rd Games), Cashmere Lord (64th Games), Augustus Braun (67th Games)

 **District 2:** Baron Overwhill (4th Games), Runa Peace (7th Games), Olga Machete (10th Games), Rook Valiant (17th Games), Boulder Atherston (20th Games), Vercingetorix Carnby (25th Games), Dragon Batofel (27th Games), Rhyder Overwhill (39th Games), Mercy Gregor (46th Games), Brutus Gunn (49th Games), Lyme Rabe (51st Games), Enobaria Golding (62nd Games), Magnus Sterlingshire (73rd Games)

 **District 3:** Honorius Perthshire (5th Games), Pi Orbit (22nd Games), Beetee Latier (37th Games), Wiress Plummer (47th Games), Yohan Fairbane (58th Games)

 **District 4:** Museida Selkirk (3rd Games), Mags Flanagan (11th Games), Tide Luther (23rd Games), Librae Ogilvy (35th Games), Anchor Paddock (52nd Games), Finnick Odair (65th Games), Ron Stafford (68th Games), Annie Cresta (70th Games)

 **District 5:** Shunt Gaspar (12th Games), Isobel Sparks (18th Games), Crimson Flanders (29th Games), Porter Tripp (38th Games), Neon Erg (48th Games), Wattzon Holmes (55th Games), Arendellian Spinner III (57th Games)

 **District 6:** Chassis Macalister (31st Games), Bentley Corduroy (54th Games), Porsche London (56th Games), Numi Marrolto (72nd Games)

 **District 7:** Pliny Aransio (2nd Games), Fir Buzz (9th Games), Jack Tylos (21st Games), Snag Nakamura (34th Games), Blight Jordan (53rd Games), Logger Barlow (61st Games), Johanna Mason (71st Games)

 **District 8:** Woof Casino (16th Games), Paige Murphy (30th Games), Spool Nylon (42nd Games), Cecelia Mog (60th Games)

 **District 9:** Mizar Aldjoy (1st Games), Gwenith Rosebud (13th Games), Teff Withers (28th Games), Laurel Flamsteel (36th Games), Tabbock Summers (43rd Games), Trevy Vex (Escaped 55th Games)

 **District 10:** Stallion March (26th Games), Lammy Phyronix (40th Games), Pasture Gallows (59th Games), Skinner Alecto (69th Games)

 **District 11:** Bear Redfoot (15th Games), Seeder Howell (33rd Games), Chaff Mitchell (45th Games), Spud Munroe (66th Games)

 **District 12:** Duke Saint-Rose (6th Games), Haymitch Abernathy (50th Games), Katniss Everdeen (74th Games), Peeta Mellark (74th Games)

 **The Capitol:** Cupid Sol (Final Games)


	77. Epilogue: The New Era

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Hunger Games. They belong to Suzanne Collins.

 **Note:** At long last we're here, the final chapter of this massive story. It's been a massive tale of arenas, death, hope, love, despair, hatred and various other words and… somehow hardly the longest fic I have ever written, actually? Well, whatever the case, it's been a really fun project to work on and it's almost a shame it's over. Only a few loose ends left to tie up and you'll all be getting the answers to what few remaining questions still lack answers in this chapter (and if I forget something just DM me and I'll give you an answer, haha). I'll be making a journal on my DeviantArt page in the coming days talking about beta content, scrapped victors, reflections of what worked and did not work and much more, so as always keep an eye out for that soon enough! So… I'd say it's time to end the story once and for all, wouldn't you? Let's get started!

* * *

It had been three months since the Capitol Games had come to their grisly end.

It had been exactly as long since the Hunger Games were abolished forevermore.

In that time there had been many changes around Panem and, for once, all changes were truly for the better.

The Capitol Games had been loved by those in the districts with vengeance in their hearts and left the Capitol whimpering and crying. Finally they'd seen such how barbaric and evil this form of 'entertainment' was. Finally the Games were over, with efforts already ongoing to destroy every last arena and replace them with memorials to all tributes who had died over the many years of the Games. From Jakki Jones, the first ever tribute to die, all the way to Stinn Bone, the last one of all to be killed, they would all be remembered.

The walls between each district had been torn down and reduced to nothing. Travel was freely permitted to all across Panem so long as they could afford a train ticket, and with all the new welfare systems in place and the support for the poor this wouldn't be an issue for anybody before long. Before all of this people couldn't have ever imagined seeing anywhere outside of their own district, or even their own town. Now here was the second age kicked off with new sights for all to see and no punishment for seeing them.

President Paylor had lost some support for allowing the Capitol Games to occur, what with it being child murder and how even with so many calling for justice and revenge there had been those who wanted nothing of the sort to happen. Still, it was really out of her hands due to how the victors had voted on it. She had held onto her power, but now she was less of a president and more like a counsel women. One of fourteen.

The new system was in its infancy, but it looked like it was really going to work. Each district would have its own representative on a nationwide council, all of whom would regularly meet and make the important decisions to guide the nation forwards.

Platinum represented District One.

Otto Cavalier, father of the late Cato Cavalier, represented District Two.

Orbit Marsh, one of the strongest minds within Three and head of the biggest tech plant, represented District Three.

Zabrina Reefbait, daughter of the former mayor of the district of fishing who died in the rebellion, represented District Four.

Arendellian Spinner IV, named for her late aunt who won the Games where her more distant same-named relatives did not, represented District Five.

Nuvi Marrolto, found alive much to the sheer joy and relief of Numi, followed her late mother's footsteps and represented District Six.

Petals Nakamura, second eldest of Snag's daughters, represented District Seven.

Paylor herself remained staffed to represent District Eight.

In a shocking twist of events a drunken yet powerful young man by the name of Hovis Tonic was elected to represent District Nine.

Tiller Gallows, nephew of the late legend Pasture Gallows, represented District Ten.

Spring Applebee, mother to the late Rue Applebee, represented District Eleven.

Delly Cartwright stepped up to represent District Twelve and, to her own pleasant surprise, proved to be quite good at it.

Cressida set down her camera equipment for the foreseeable future and rose to the challenge of representing District Thirteen.

He'd been famous for years, helped tributes in his own way for decades, knew how to talk to people like no other and loved being in the spotlight making a difference… so, really, it was no surprise at all that Caesar Flickerman found himself representing the Capitol.

Naturally, the nation still wasn't perfect and it was possible that it never would be. Better as things may have been there would always be those from the districts who would forever hate the Capitol and those from the Capitol that despised the districts in return. But the attacks has lessened. In generations to come the hatred would likely lessen until, just maybe, it went away for good.

All the same, one thing had caused quite a large stir. One that had to be quelled before things went out of control.

It turned out there was another victor who had survived the rebellion.

One who had not even been there for the rebellion.

Two months after the Capitol Games had come to their gory conclusion Librae had finally made it home, arriving at one of the beaches of District Four. At first she'd been greeted with numerous cheers of relief and delight. It had been a homecoming most grand, a party that lasted almost a week.

But then Librae, while being interviewed about her time stranded on Hawaii, had been asked for her opinion on the Capitol Games by Caesar. It was, after all, his job to get her up to speed on recent events.

Librae had expressed great sympathy and claimed that she would have voted no. Normally this would just be taken as a kind gesture, but there was one itsy bitsy issue. Her vote would have caused a deadlock.

One that would have resulted in a Games of just twelve tributes, the ones who were forced into the arena to begin with.

There were many riots across the Capitol, many howls of the injustice this was and how a dozen children had ended up dying for nothing at all. If the Games were inevitable then at least kill as few as possible!

It was clear that the angry, hurt Capitol citizens needed something to distract them, and fast.

Something grand.

Something big.

Something feelgood.

What else but the wedding of the century?

* * *

District Ten had always been a wide and spacious sort of place, the fields stretching on for miles and miles. Such a large surface area made it the perfect setting for the biggest wedding in modern Panem history.

People from all districts were there as were many of those from the Capitol. So very anticipated was the event that those of the Capitol were even willing to bare the smell of the fields to witness the wedding happen.

Of course, all of the incredible wedding designs probably helped make it easier to bare. The massive arches of flowers grown locally, the grand tapestries imported from Eight, the numerous red petals, the glorious band playing a heavenly melody…

…The fifty five seats, empty of a person and instead occupied by a number made from flowers. Each marked the Hunger Games of a deceased victor. One for Mizar, Two for Pliny, Three for Museida and so on and so forth.

Hundreds and maybe even thousands of people were in attendance for the big day with seats stretching on for over a mile, massive screens having to be set up to hovercrafts silently floating overhead that displayed the live footage for those unable to see the events closely enough.

It was looking to be the perfect distraction from all the pain and death of the cruel past era.

Cupid had never seen such a perfectly romantic event in all his life and, if he were to be honest, he wasn't sure if anything would ever be able to top this. Just the fact it was happening and that he was alive to see it made him feel a sense of genuine happiness.

Being the ring bearer was just the icing on the cake.

The ceremony had already been going for a while, but now the main event had arrived. Cupid stood back beside Crown and Harp and awaited the moment where Spool and Lammy would exchange their vows. As anybody could have expected the beefy candy maker and the sugary sweet noblewoman were already in tears and had gone through half of the tissues they'd bought along. Calling them criers at weddings would be an understatement.

"This is so beautiful like holy moley this almost makes up for at least some of the Hunger Games that have come and gone like seriously it's a great day and the birds are singing and everybody is smiling so what could we call this but a happy ending though it's too bad I never really found anybody but I guess it's a bittersweet ending and I can dig it and hey at least the wedding cake is gonna be good but do you think Spool and Lammy made it chocolate flavoured because I really hope they made it chocolate OMIGAWD this is so romantic!" Crown concluded his statement by weeping and blowing his nose.

"Nice wedding," Harp agreed. "Really nice. Sweet. Lovely!"

Cupid smiled, fully in agreement with what the victor and his bestie had said. But his attention did not rest upon them for long. He wanted to hear the vows.

He also wanted to make sure he didn't miss his cue. Causing things to fall off of schedule? That was the last thing a romantic such as him wanted for any couple!

Especially as this the couple were his mom and dad.

The nation watched as Spool stood firm, dressed in the finest tuxedo in Panem, with his friends by his side. Tag, of course, was the best man. The fellow members of his childhood gang, the Sock Knights, were right there with him as well. Stretch, Buckle, Mitten and Aglet – all of them had lived to see this grand day.

The nation continued to watch as Spool practically melted on the spot when his eyes gazed at Lammy, the women making her way down the aisle with the loveliest of smiles. Her ginger hair flowed in the breeze and her snow white dress was made all the more lovely with the reflections of the sun from it surface and the occasional blue flower placed here and there. She was, of course, flanked by her best friends from Ten – Bernadette and Chick.

It wasn't long before Lammy took her place by Spool and the tender music gently faded off into silence. For a few precious moments nobody within Panem said a word as the victors simply looked at each other in content silence.

Only the minister, an old friend of Lammy's dad, broke the silence. The minster spoke of what they were all there for – nothing more and nothing less than to celebrate the decades long and completely unbreakable bond Lammy and Spool shared – and before long had moved the ceremony to the point where the vows would be exchanged.

Lammy went first, taking on of Spool's hands between her own.

"We've been together for a long time Spool. Where's all the time gone, huh?" Lammy asked, giggling.

"Who knows?" Spool replied. "But wherever it has gone it's been time well spent."

"That's for sure," Lammy agreed. "Remember when we first met? That time where dad and I were called to Eight to deal with wild dog monsters. It was nice, watching that old puppet show you and your friends put on. I thought after that day we'd never meet again… how very wrong I was."

"The best thing to be wrong about, right?" Spool remarked.

"You've got that right. I never expected that, of all things, it was the Hunger Games that bought us together… I won't lower, myself by saying those dreadful Games helped me, or us. Not really. I think one way or the other we would have found a way to cross paths regardless," Lammy's smile became more tender. "Keeping the secret of your true identity for so many years… it was thrilling, keeping that promise of secrecy. It was easy to keep my word on it, just like it'll be easy for me to keep my word when I vow to love you always. Nothing can change that."

"I feel the exact same way," Spool moved his arms so that he was now holding Lammy's hand between his own. "I vow to love you, to care for you and to protect you until the moment I draw my last breath… not that you'll need it. I think we both know you're perhaps the toughest women in Ten whoever lived."

"Generous, but I think we both know I'm second strongest in these parts," Lammy directed her gaze to the seat where the number fifty nine was formed out of flowers. "Still, what could be stronger than the two of us together, forever?"

"I can't think of anything," Spool said, managing to lightly chuckle. "All the more reason for us to get on with it after all these years."

"How long did it take us to reach this point? We started dating around the mid-point of Mercy's Games, so that'd be…" Lammy paused, trying to work out the math in her head.

"Almost thirty years. I think we can just agree to call ourselves fashionably late," Spool declared. "So… are you ready?"

"For you Spool? I was ready a long, long time ago," Lammy whispered.

It was only a few more passages of text , spoken grandly by the minister of course, before it was time.

Cupid came forth holding a velvet pillow with both rings placed neatly upon it. He knelt down, raising up the pillow for his adoptive parents.

"Mom, dad, am I doing a good job?" Cupid whispered.

"You're doing great, dear," Lammy whispered back.

The rings, both with a diamond specially cut to resemble a mockingjay, were soon placed upon the finger of the bride and groom. After that there was really only one thing left to do. One unforgettable moment to be broadcast to the entire nation.

"I now pronounce you man and wife. You may now kiss the bride."

There was no delay. Spool and Lammy embraced and shared their first kiss as a wedded couple. The cheering could be heard for miles and miles around as their kiss was shown to all of humanity.

To the surprise of nobody Crown was weeping at the beauty of the moment. Cupid, Harp, Annie Gwenith and, surprisingly, Wattzon were doing much the same. Of course, nobody was sobbing and going through tissues faster than Caesar. The man was on the front row and had always been infamous for how he would cry at the drop of a hat at weddings.

After all the trials and bloodstained tribulations over the years a wedding truly was what the nation needed, or at the very least it was a fine distraction. One much better than the dreadful Hunger Games.

Of course, this was only the start when all was said and done. Sure, it was the part that the public could enjoy to the fullest extent, but there was still more to come for the family of the wedded victors and other special guests.

The wedding reception awaited them.

* * *

If there was one thing that the victors knew how to do, other than survive against dangerous and terrible odds, it was how to put on a party. Sure enough, that was exactly what was going on within the newly reconstructed and expanded Judgement Building within District Ten. Gone were the tight rooms that felt more like prisons, gone were the paintings that displayed the Capitol's superiority, gone was any sense of fear.

Instead, what remained was a welcoming atmosphere and a loud, happy party. If there was anything to close the curtains on the previous era of Panem then this was certainly it. A traditional country song, banjo and all, was playing for all the guests in the spacious party room and nobody was in any sort of a bad mood.

Everybody was at peace, one way or the other. If not that then they were at least able to remain stable, at least for however long the party might go on for.

Olga sat quietly in her wheelchair off to the side of the party, content to remain alone and not speak to any of the others in attendance. She had a feeling that, even with the war behind them, they all hated her. Olga couldn't blame them, especially not when she hated herself as well.

She didn't have much time left, but what little she had would be spent in an unending penance for how many people were hurt and killed by her actions. Brainwashed or not, she still made the choices she did. She never refused a command, whatever the cruelty it involved.

"At least the food is nice," Olga softly mumbled, finishing off the piece of wedding cake she had been given. "Finally, after all these years… finally I have chocolate."

"Do you like it?" Crown asked, moving to stand by Olga. "Made it all by myself."

"Ahem?" Harp said, pouting a little bit as she walked up to stand on Olga's other side. "Made it together. Helped you a lot!"

"Fine, fine, it was a team effort. I surrender, just stop that legendary pout!" Crown exclaimed, holding up his arms and laughing.

Harp soon eased up the look on her face and, with a giggle, sat down on a nearby table. One where the chair was marked with flowers forming the number fourteen. She smiled, at peace, and began to quietly pay her respects to her fallen lover Crystal, gone all too soon and unable to see the wedding.

"Miss you Crissy," Harp whispered.

Crown watched this for a moment, feeling a little pang in his heart as he thought back upon his old friend, before turning his attention over to Olga.

"Enjoying the party?" Crown asked.

Olga just shrugged.

"It doesn't matter," Olga stated. "So what if I do? After this I'll be the most hated person alive and, for what little time I have left, I'll have to deal with the guilt… and the knowledge everything I worked for is destroyed. It was all for nothing."

"I guess that would be quite upsetting," Crown agreed. "But you know, it doesn't have to be that way. You're still alive now, aren't you?"

"It's certainly likely," Olga drawled.

"Well, that means you still have time to change things up," Crown explained, taking out a packet of candy to snack on. "See, it's like the old song – The Hokey Pokey."

Olga looked at Crown with a face most stony.

"Hear me out," Crown said, awkwardly chuckling. "It's not about doing the hokey pokey. That part was always the bit that never really mattered."

"Even though it's literally the title of the song?" Olga asked, already looking out of patience. "Please, just leave me to wallow in shame."

"No can do," Crown replied. "See, you do the hokey pokey… and what do you do then?"

"Uh… stand still?" Olga asked, blank.

"Nope. You do the hokey pokey, and then you turn yourself around. Olga, _you turn yourself around_. That's what the song, and life, are all about. So long as you're alive you can still change things. The rest of us are alive, and we certainly changed a lot of things over the years. We changed the world, and you can change your world too," Crown concluded his statement by opening the pack of candy, the packet making a pop sound as the top of it split apart. "You just have to make that first step… or, uh, first wheel. You know what I mean."

Olga looked at Crown in a way she had never once done so prior in all the decades she had known him.

"…You know what?" Olga said, her old voice waving and soft. "I think I do."

Over by the stage Numi was giving all of the sound equipment a final check. It wouldn't be long before it was time for her wedding rap solo to begin and she wanted it to be perfect.

"Okay, boomboxes are tuned to perfection, microphone is working fine, the mixtape is all good and ready to go… yep, I'd say the show is ready to go on," Numi remarked to herself.

"Rapping at a such a grand event; this must be the best moment of your life, huh?" the girl sitting beside Numi said. "Either that or when your mixtape went platinum, right?"

Numi shook her head as she turned to look at the girl keeping her company.

"Nah, not even close," Numi pulled Nuvi in for a gentle hug. "The best moment was when you turned up alive. I don't think I've ever been more relieved in my life. I mean, sis, I was crying like a baby."

"I think we both were," Nuvi replied, giggling. "I'm just glad Dollar had the sense to grab me while I was panicking and toss me into her zombie bunker. She had to have known it was me or her… and she chose me."

"Dollar was always a cool gal," Numi said, tapping the microphone for a final check. "Too bad she couldn't save all of you."

Nuvi looked at her left arm, now robotic from the elbow down. She gave it a few experimental flexes and stretches, soon managing to smile.

"It could be worse. Really, if the worst thing about being… uh, what was the word? A cyborg? Yeah, that. Anyway, if the worst thing about it is how the robotic bits itch every now and then I don't think I have much to companion about," Nuvi gave her twin a hug. "Not when we're still here together."

"Awwww, Nuvi, you're gonna make me blush," Numi replied, giggling.

"That's the plan," Nuvi teased. "You've made me feel flustered hundreds of times. I need to even out the score somehow."

Over at one of the tables off to the side were Annie and Librae. The final two victors from District Four still had plenty of catching up to do – or, rather, actually meeting each other to begin with. Prior to now they'd just lacked the time to really talk.

But, at last, the time had arrived. Librae listened contently to Annie's words, ever so gently holding Sinbad in her arms. She'd been given special permission to hold the little boy and she wasn't going to make Annie regret doing so.

"It's amazing, really, how much therapy has been able to help me," Annie said, pouring herself another glass of juice. "I feel like I'm getting stronger every day. I've said before that I'm taking baby steps, but I'm not so sure that's true anymore. I think I'm starting to take adult steps again. I can see why Snow kept therapy all to himself and the Capitol… it's something that helps us all remain strong and able to face the days ahead."

"I'm glad to hear you're doing well," Librae was nothing but delighted. "I was worried that I'd come back and all of you would be dead. I guess all the victors I knew have gone, but I'm glad that you're still here. I think this is really the start of a lifelong friendship dude."

"I quite agree," Annie replied, smiling. "My mom always told me how brave you were and how you took on those pirates like it was nothing. I wish I was that strong."

Librae laid a hand upon Annie's shoulder, a gentle grin covering her face.

"You are strong. I mean, surviving the second rebellion? That takes serious power, dudette!" Librae exclaimed. "You were in the thick of it. Me? I was stuck in Hawaii with only pineapples and old video cassette shows for company."

"Don't sell yourself short Librae, it takes some real nerve to defeat so many pirates. Not to mention keeping your sanity during years of isolation," Annie laid a hand upon Librae's own. "I'm just so glad to see you. It's great to have you back."

"It's great to be back. Honestly, this is surreal. Like… it's honestly kind of insane, actually?" Librae trailed off for a moment, briefly unsure of what to say next. "From my perspective it's like the Capitol is just kinda gone and that plenty of people I once called my friends have died, and I never got to say goodbye."

Annie moved so that she was beside Librae, close enough to give her a much needed hug.

"Thanks Annie," Librae said, grateful. "It's like, woo, we won. That's awesome… but if I'd just gotten back here a few months sooner than I could have saved twelve kids from dying. If I was just a little bit faster…"

"It wasn't your fault," Annie assured her. "If we have anybody to blame then it's Snow. Really, we're all just glad you made it back to begin with. It makes me happy to know you would have voted no to the Capitol Games."

"There was never any other choice. Hurting people is uncool, that's literally all there is to it," Librae replied. "I'm sure I'll move on from all the bad feelings before long, but for now… I don't know, I just wanna surf."

"Hey, speaking of which…" Annie looked almost shy. "Since you're, um, the legend when it comes to surfing in Four… mind teaching me how to do it? I've kinda always wanted to know how."

Librae grinned, looking like all the life of her younger self had returned to her for a moment.

"Tomorrow morning at the beach. Be there dudette," Librae said, winking. "I'll show you the ropes."

"For real? Thanks Librae, you're the second best!" Annie exclaimed, glee in her eyes.

"Second best? Dudette, you wound me," Librae teased.

"Perhaps, but Finnick will always be the best," Annie said, fondly smiling.

"Heh, when you're right you're right," Librae agreed.

"Exactly," Annie said, rising. "Now if you'll excuse me I'm gonna get us some more drinks. Be right back."

Annie took just two steps before somehow tripping over her feet, doing a front flip and landed on her butt on the floor.

"Oopsie!" Annie said, rather dazed.

Librae could only chuckle at the sight.

Off to the side of the party in a quieter area by the balcony were Wattzon, Spud and Johanna. The former was sitting in a content sort of silence, simply glad to be alive and also awaiting Clarkson's return with cake. Meanwhile Johanna was slightly tipsy already while Spud was softly crying for reasons his fellow victors didn't know.

"What are you crying about you old Jessie?" Johanna asked, a faint slur to her words.

"It's just… happy endings like this? It makes the hardship of being a rebel all worthwhile," Spud said, wiping away a tear. "Life is beautiful!"

"I wouldn't say it's a completely happy ending," Wattzon stated. He glanced off to the side, a little out of sorts. "If it was then Arendellian would still be here."

"I guess you're right. Same for Bear, Chaff, Seeder… most of the victors, honestly," Spud agreed, slightly calming himself.

"Fir," Johanna added, opening up another bottle of beer.

"Now there was a happy victor. Can't have a fully happy ending without her here," Spud agreed. "Still… we did alright, you know? We could have done a lot worse."

"Like if somebody else other than Katniss and Peeta won the Seventy Fourth Games?" Wattzon guessed, reaching for a beer of his own. "What, like that brute of a boy from District Two?"

"Perhaps," Spud agreed. "Or, um… maybe the timid girl from Three? Or Finnick's nephew? Or even that quiet girl from Nine. Think there may have been a smaller body count if one of them had won?"

"Beats me. There likely would have been no rebellion anyway. Maybe it's better we don't know for sure. Not like we'll ever know now that they're dead and the Capitol is overthrown," Wattzon said, taking a sip of the drink.

"I guess you're right," Spud agreed. "…I'm still in a state of shock that it's all over."

"Nah, that's just the beer making you feel that way. Always knew you were a light head," Johanna added with a laugh. "Some things never change."

Spud seemed to gain a bit of nerve in that exact moment.

"Well, one thing is going to change. I'm gonna stop being the wimp Anchor thought I was," Spud, still showing the smallest bit of nerve, turned to Johanna. "Want to dance?"

Johanna finished off her beer with one mighty gulp and stared at Spud for a moment.

"…Yeah, alright. Let's do it," Johanna agreed.

Wattzon watched with an amused sort of smirk as Johanna half led and half dragged Spud to the dance floor. To call their attempt at a dance ridiculous would be an understatement, but they both seemed to be having fun.

"You seem happy," Clarkson noted as he returned to sit beside Wattzon, holding two plates of cake.

"Just glad the fighting is all over," Wattzon replied. "Though if the cake isn't carrot then I daresay we'll be in for one more fight."

"Relax drama queen, it's carrot," Clarkson said, passing a plate to Wattzon. "So, what do we do now?"

"We live," Wattzon stated. He plucked a large piece of cake onto his fork and raised it up. "To Arendellian."

"To Arendellian," Clarkson repeated.

At a different table in a louder area of the party were Enobaria, Haymitch and Rhyder. The latter of the trio could watch in moderate amusement as his fellow victors were locked in a most ancient sort of combat – the oldest battle of wits that humanity knew. A drinking contest.

"I have no idea how you guys do it," Rhyder said, bemused. "I'm not sure what's stranger, the fact you're both still going after twenty glasses of beer or that the staff were willing to let you drink that much in the first place."

"Who's complaining?" Haymitch replied, pouring out another glass for himself.

"Not me," Enobaria added with a great slur. "Nevvvvver me!"

"Just don't drink yourselves to death so soon after we won the war. Now's the time for us to recover, rebuild, have fun… and, again, not drink ourselves to death," Rhyder said, amused in spite of his concern.

"Fuddy duddy," Enobaria said, slurring even more.

"Eh, Rhyder was always the g-g-good boy of your district," Haymitch remarked. "Come on, I still got plenty of sobriety to drink off."

"Same here," Enobaria added, using her sharp fangs to bite the cap off of a bottle. "Same here."

"Just don't hurt yourselves," Rhyder said. He finished off his own drink – a warm herbal tea – and relaxed. "Then again, maybe letting ourselves go for one night wouldn't be so bad. Starting tomorrow it's gonna be work, work and more work. I'll be needing to find places in society for all the leftover careers-in-training from Two and One. I'm sure their training can be put to something constructive, wonderful even, with the right sort of guidance."

Rhyder paused, noticing that Haymitch and Enobaria seemed to have passed out, their drinking finally having caught up to them.

"Why do I even bother?" Rhyder asked. Nonetheless, he was smiling as he left the table. It was time for him to go home and pay monthly respects to his parents anyway.

Once Rhyder was gone Haymitch and Enobaria opened their eyes and, for the first time since they had known each other, shared a fist bump. A bond of friendship, or at least tolerance, was forming.

"He's a damn good soldier and mentor, but everyday things like telling whiskey and apple juice apart? Not so great," Haymitch remarked.

"I guess nobody is perfect," Enobaria said, opening another bottle with her teeth. "You know something Haymitch. You're not wholly horrendous to be around."

"Is that a fact?" Haymitch replied. "Well, fancy that, I don't think you're totally unbearable either. Figures it took a massive rebellion for that to become clear."

Beetee sat in his wheelchair off to the side of the room, fully focused on his laptop. He was still unable to walk, but he'd been assured it was only a matter of weeks until he would be able to. Maybe even less than that if he were lucky. Until such a time came Beetee was content to busy himself in his perhaps endless work and continue working for a great future for the nation.

"Nose deep in your laptop. How very social of you Beetee," Platinum remarked as she carefully walked up to him. "Whatever are you looking at on that device of yours?"

"Graphs and charts mainly," Beetee replied. "Just statistics on how the nation is coming along."

"Good or bad?" Platinum asked.

"Good," Beetee assured her. "Very good even. Honestly, I'd predicted we'd be spending over a decade or two rebuilding everything after how much was lost in the rebellion, but honestly? We might be done in just shy of five years."

"Sounds great to me. I didn't help this war just so I could spend the rest of my life on clean up duty," Platinum said as she sat in a chair beside Beetee. "How long until you're walking again."

"Oh, not very long. Maybe even by this time next month. Just a matter of playing the waiting game," Beetee closed his laptop, placing it back in its bag. "As it happens, I have a lot of patience. I'll be fine. How about you though?"

"Me?" Platinum replied.

Beetee gestured to Platinum's fake leg, which was ever so slightly attached at the wrong angle. Platinum quickly began to work on straightening it out.

"How are you finding that new leg?" Beetee continued. "I understand it's quite an adjustment to make."

"Well, yes, it is," Platinum admitted. "But, I'm getting there. One day at a time. One step at a time. I learnt how to walk once, I can do it again. I mean, with my position in the new government I sort of _have_ to learn how."

"I think you'll do just fine Platinum. One thing I've learnt about you in the decades we've known each other is that you're stronger than anybody had seen coming. You survived over a month alone in the darkness under your arena, broken leg and all," Beetee gave Platinum a genuine smile. "I'm not a man who believes in much, but nonetheless I believe you'll be alright."

"Thanks Beetee. Not even kidding, that means a lot to hear," Platinum lay a hand upon Beetee's shoulder. "Feeling's mutual. I believe you'll be fine as well."

Katniss and Peeta stood at the edge of the dance floor, the former looking uncertain as to if she even wanted to be there and the latter trying to get his girlfriend to join him for a dance.

"Come on, for me?" Peeta asked.

"I don't know…" Katniss looked away, reluctant.

"We won't be the only ones on the dance floor," Peeta assured her. "There's a few couples already there and we already know who everybody is going to be looking at most of all."

"I guess you're right," Katniss said. Still, she hesitated. "It's just, uh…"

"What?" Peeta said.

"I really have no idea what to do on a dance floor," Katniss said, covering her face. "Sure, I've done it before during the tour and all that, but… that felt different. I was expected to. Here though…"

"You're around friends," Peeta said, giving Katniss' hand a gentle squeeze. "Nobody would say anything or stare, but if you want to just sit down and relax then that's fine too. Honestly, relaxing the night away sounds like a nice idea."

Katniss thought this over for a few moments.

"…No," Katniss said.

"No?" Peeta replied.

"I think you're right," Katniss said, gesturing to the dance floor. "Everybody's here, there's nothing for us to be afraid of and… and we're both in good, stable moods. Let's dance."

"If that's what you want then let's do it," Peeta said, letting Katniss lead him onto the dance floor.

In moments the Girl on Fire and the Boy with the Bread were lost in their dance, blind to all but each other.

The pair from Twelve were not the only ones on the dance floor. Snag was there as well, performing an energetic tango routine with Paisley. The couple danced around in delight, moving in perfect unison with each other. Such a dance had been a long time coming – it was just a week prior that, at long last, Snag had been cured of cystic fibrosis. He was now able to walk all day, every day just like anybody else.

"Whoa Snag!" Paisley exclaimed, laughing. "You've got some real moves!"

"I've been waiting to show of these moves for over forty years," Snag replied, laughing as well.

Snag twirled Paisley around, dipped her down for a moment and bought her back up again. They settled into an embrace as the music slowed down.

"So, what do we do now?" Paisley asked, content to be in Snag's embrace.

"Dance the night away," Snag suggested.

"Mmmm, I like that idea," Paisley agreed. "…It's nice, isn't it, how are daughters are all grown up and successful, isn't it?"

"It's happened so fast that it practically snuck up on me," Snag said, smiling fondly. "Acre's gonna be exploring land outside Panem, Petals is representing Seven in the new government, Sunset's having her first child really soon… what a great family we have."

Paisley responded by hugging Snag a little tighter. She was in agreement, of course, but there was one piece of the puzzle that would always be missing. A piece that couldn't be replaced.

"I'm sure, if she had made it out of that terrible arena, Bloom would have done something amazing," Snag sounded ever so wistful. "She could have been anything."

"Do you regret it… voting to punish the Capitol for what they did to her?" Paisley asked.

"It's a complicated question to answer, but honestly… a little yes, a little no. Yes because Victor wasn't a bad kid… and no, because it got them to finally see Bloom as a person and realise just what they out her through. Realise what they put _us_ through. Either way I've had my fill of revenge for this lifetime."

"I'm glad to hear it Snag," Paisley said, resting her head on Snag's shoulder. "This new world has no place for revenge."

"You know what Paisley?" Snag said. He slowly began to smile. "I quite agree."

Crimson stood alone off to the side of the room, content to spend the party simply in her own company. She was more focused on reconnecting with her family once the next dawn arrived. What would they say? What would they make of her now that the truth behind the decades of debauchery had come out? She hoped that they would accept her.

"I guess what will be will be," Crimson whispered. "Everything I did was for them. Whether they love me or not... I'll always love them."

Crimson closed her eyes and exhaled deeply. Her mind was abuzz with questions, questions that demanded answers. Until then she'd enjoy the part as best as she could. She felt, after all the decades of pain, she had earned a single night of peace.

Off to the side of the dance floor was Cupid, the boy dancing alone for the moment. His moves were simple, but it was obvious that he was having a great time at the party.

"You look happy," Trevy remarked as he moonwalked backwards, coming to a stop beside Cupid. "Enjoying the party?"

"Hard not to. I mean… look at them," Cupid gestured to where Spool and Lammy were slow dancing with each other. "Mom and dad look like they're happy."

"Haven't they been happy before?" Trevy asked.

"Sure they have, but not like this. This is the happiness you only get through true love," Cupid sighed dramatically. "Isn't it wonderful?"

"Eh, I guess so? I never was much for romance," Trevy paused from his dancing, content to just stand and watch the rest. "So, how are you feeling? Of all of us you're the youngest victor there will ever be and it's only been a few months since you won. I guess I'm just a little concerned is all."

"Things aren't perfect, but they're good enough. Mom and dad have been a big help with that," Cupid said. He glanced off to the side. "I don't think I'd be here if not for them. Whether it would be the arena that got or… something else."

Cupid ceased his own attempt at dancing and stood rather still.

"I still wake up screaming," Cupid admitted. "I'm not sure if it will ever truly stop. I hope it will. I think it might, one day… I guess I'll just have to try and hope."

"That reminds me of something I once said to Wattzon," Trevy recalled. "Hope is a great thing, maybe the best of things, and no good thing ever dies. I'm not exactly a trauma expert as I never entered the arena to begin with, but if you ever need to talk about anything then I'm here. We're all here."

"We're like one big happy family, aren't we?" Cupid said, softly chuckling. "Maybe not all of us are happy right now, but we could be. We can be. So long as we keep ourselves open to love we could be anything."

"I think you've got it right," Trevy agreed. "And speaking of us being anything, what I am is hungry. I think the snack table has jelly donuts. Want some?"

"Jelly donuts?" Cupid exclaimed. "Score!"

Cupid sped off towards the snack table, his eyes practically sparkling at the thought of his favourite dessert. Trevy laughed, following right behind him.

At the very centre of the dance floor were the newlyweds themselves. Spool and Lammy gently held each other, content to dance the night away. What better way was there to spend their time now that, for the most part, all was well?

"We finally did it," Spool said, gently twirling Lammy around. "We finally tied the old knot. Took us long enough."

"Like we agreed, we were just being fashionably late," Lammy replied with a giggle. "It really feels like the past few decades have been leading up to this moment doesn't it?"

"It does. Now the moment is here and all I can think of, beside the obvious things, is what we'll do next," Spool thought this over for a few moments. "The adventure is over, isn't it?"

"It is. I suppose we'll just have to find a new adventure to keep us occupied, or maybe enjoy retirement. Whatever makes us happy I suppose," Lammy replied. "The Games are over and Snow is dead, but why should that mean there has to be a shortage of fun things to do?"

"You're right. There's no reason for things to be that way at all," Spool agreed. "In fact, here's an idea. Picture this; us, Cupid, Tag and the boys going on a massive hunting trip together? There are still plenty of mutts that need taking care of. We could bring Chick and Bernadette as well!"

"You know what Spool?" Lammy said, this time being the one to twirl Spool around. "That sounds like a great idea. We could make it into our honeymoon."

"Shall we set out tomorrow? I'm ready to go any time you are," Spool said, grinning.

"Let's give it a few days," Lammy said. "We still need to pick the trail we'll be following. Besides, we're all gonna be up until sunrise at this rate. Let's enjoy the party."

"Great idea," Spool agreed, content.

After a few moments of slow dancing Lammy became aware that one of the surviving victors was absent. A few extra moments of careful observation failed to locate the missing victor.

"Where did Gwenith go?" Lammy asked, puzzled. "Is she in the bathroom or something?"

"Oh, she left a while ago. She wished us all the best, but she said she had some unfinished business to take care of," Spool explained.

"What sort of business?" Lammy asked.

"I'm not sure, exactly. But it sounded like it was something that was important to her personally," Spool said. He grinned as the music changed from a slow dance to an energetic funky rap beat.

"Hey everybody!" Numi yelled from her spot upon the stage. "Are ya'll ready to make some noise?!"

"I don't know… are we, Lammy?" Spool asked, his grin turning into an outright smirk.

"I'd say we are," Lammy replied, her expression matching that of her husband. "Let's dance the night away."

And so they did.

* * *

The sun was setting, casting a golden glow over the land under its warm rays. It would not be long before nightfall would arrive and stars would come out. The clouds that were slowly billowing in suggested that rain would be falling sooner than later.

Gwenith, of course, did not care if it rained or not. Let it rain, she thought. If it had to fall then she would dance in it.

After all, she no longer had any worries. She no longer had any fears.

Gwenith was at peace.

The elderly victor had returned home to District Nine, slipping away before anybody aside Spool could see her, for a private bit of personal remembrance.

She stood in the spot where it all began so many years ago. Specifically, the place that had once been the reaping stage in District Nine's square. After the rebellion, however, the wrecked place had been rebuilt into a memorial.

A grand statue of Mizar was build in the centre of the square. There had once been another statue like it, only smaller, but that too had been destroyed prior.

Gwenith smiled, letting out a soft breath as she looked at the statue in the image of her lifelong friend. She practically glowed in the dying light of the day.

"We are free. It's the happy ending that you fought for your entire life. I did my best to make it happen, all for you. I hope I made you proud," Gwenith wiped away a single tear. "A free Panem. A world with no more Games… it's even more beautiful than I ever could have imagined. But then, I think you always imagined it would be something like this. I don't think we could have done it without you being the first of all of us."

Gwenith reached into her pockets for a certain item she had bought along for the visit. Something she'd received from Haymitch a while ago, the man claiming that 'she needed it a little more than he did'.

Gwenith moved forth until she was close enough to lay a hand upon Mizar's statue. For a moment there were no words to be spoken.

"I will see you again," Gwenith said with certainty. "When my time is up we _will_ see each other once again."

Gwenith placed the item down on the base of the statue.

The mockingjay pin glowed under the perfect sunset.

"…But not yet," Gwenith said, smiling. After all, she still had her remaining years to live to the absolute fullest. "…Not yet."

Gwenith shared one last smile with the statue, gazing right into its marble eyes. With no more left to say, at least for now, Gwenith turned and began to walk back to her home. There was much work to be done on the memorials she was writing for all of the fallen tributes in Panem's history.

As Gwenith walked away into the sunset, finally at peace, the clouds high in the sky seemed to morph themselves into a new shape. It was like they had a mind of their own for one brief flicker of time.

As the sun finally set on the very long day, the clouds formed an unmistakable image in the skies above.

The image of Mizar Aldjoy, smiling down at the world. A better world than what he'd grown up in.

* * *

 **THE FALLEN**

#1: **Mizar Aldjoy** – Died from cancer (60th Games)

#2: **Pliny Aransio** – Old Age (71st Games)

#3: **Museida Selkirk** – Old Age (70th Games)

#4: **Baron Overwhill** – Old Age (72nd Games)

#5: **Honorius Perthshire** – Swallowed a nightlock pill while in captivity (Victor Purge)

#6: **Duke Saint-Rose** – Shot with a pistol by Ajax while saving Pliny's life (48th Games)

#7: **Runa Peace** – Old Age (69th Games)

#8: **Peridot Gaudy** – Old Age (69th Games)

#9: **Fir Buzz** – Old Age (74th Games)

#11: **Mags Flanagan** – Walked into a cloud of toxic fog (3rd Quarter Quell)

#12: **Shunt Gaspar** – Poisoned by acidic liquid cyanide (35th Games)

#14: **Crystal McCree** – Ongoing heart issues (44th Games)

#15: **Bear Redfoot** – Shot by Peacekeepers (Victor Purge)

#16: **Woof Casino** – Impaled with a spear by Brutus (3rd Quarter Quell)

#17: **Rook Valiant** – Shot with a pistol by Olga (Victor Purge)

#18: **Isobel Sparks** – Shot in the head with a sniper rifle by 'The Grim' (38th Games)

#19: **Bronze Marley** – Mutilated and burnt at the stake by Crimson (Victor Purge)

#20: **Boulder Atherston** – Killed during the collapse of The Nut (Victor Purge)

#21: **Jack Tylos** – Shot by Peacekeepers (Victor Purge)

#22: **Pi Orbit** – Suicide via electrocution (1st Quarter Quell)

#23: **Tide Luther** – Electric torture and firing squad (Victor Purge)

#25: **Vercingetorix Carnby** – Shot in the head with a pistol by Ajax (48th Games)

#26: **Stallion March** – Executed by firing squad (Victor Purge)

#27: **Dragon Batofel** – Bled out after winning a massive fight against dozens of Reaper Mutts (Victor Purge)

#28: **Teff Withers** – Shot by Peacekeepers (Victor Purge)

#30: **Paige Murphy** – Blew herself up in a suicide charge against an armada of Peacekeepers (Victor Purge)

#31: **Chassis Macalister** – Died during a demolition derby crash (72nd Games)

#32: **Dollar Dettwieler** – Killed during a firebombing raid. (Victor Purge)

#33: **Seeder Howell** – Skull smashed with a mace by Gloss (3rd Quarter Quell)

#36: **Laurel Flamsteel** – Stabbed with a sword by Brutus (3rd Quarter Quell)

#38: **Porter Tripp** – Drowned during the dam attack in District Five (Victor Purge)

#41: **Mascara Court** – Bled out after winning a savage fight against 'The Grim' (41st Games)

#43: **Tabbock Summers** – Drowned by Peeta (3rd Quarter Quell)

#45: **Chaff Mitchell** – Stabbed in the chest with a dagger by Brutus (3rd Quarter Quell)

#46: **Mercy Gregor** – Killed by Reaper Mutts (Victor Purge)

#47: **Wiress Plummer** – Throat slit by Gloss (3rd Quarter Quell)

#48: **Neon Erg** – Impaled through the chest with a trident by Finnick (3rd Quarter Quell)

#49: **Brutus Gunn** – Weakened by Pasture's poisoned cleat. Neck broken by Peeta (3rd Quarter Quell)

#51: **Lyme Rabe** – Shot in the chest by a Capitol sniper (Victor Purge)

#52: **Anchor Paddock** – Shot by Peacekeepers (Victor Purge)

#53: **Blight Jordan** – Ran into forcefield (3rd Quarter Quell)

#54: **Bentley Corduroy** – Throat slashed with a scimitar by Cashmere (3rd Quarter Quell)

#56: **Porsche London** – Mauled by Monkey Mutts (3rd Quarter Quell)

#57: **Arendellian Spinner III** – Killed by a massive tidal wave (3rd Quarter Quell)

#58: **Yohan Farebane** – Suicide via hanging (Victor Purge)

#59: **Pasture Gallows** – Attacked by all four careers, with Brutus finishing her off with a stab to the chest via a dagger (3rd Quarter Quell)

#60: **Cecelia Mog** – Stabbed in the back with a short sword by Enobaria (3rd Quarter Quell)

#61: **Logger Barlow** – Eaten alive by wolf mutts (Victor Purge)

#63: **Gloss Lord** – Shot in the heart with an arrow by Katniss (3rd Quarter Quell)

#64: **Cashmere Lord** – Chest struck with an axe by Johanna (3rd Quarter Quell)

#65: **Finnick Odair** – Mauled by lizard mutts (Victor Purge)

#67: **Augustus Braun** – Took a sniper shot intended for Rhyder (Victor Purge)

#68: **Ron Stafford** – Executed via firing squad (Victor Purge)

#69: **Skinner Alecto** – Killed by the claws of 'The Beast' striking him after the monster's dead body fell down (3rd Quarter Quell)

#73: **Magnus Sterlingshire** – Crushed by a falling hovercraft (Victor Purge)

* * *

 **THE FUTURE**

#10: **Olga Machete** – With all the power she had gained lost, the future she worked for destroyed and the legacy of harshness and patriotism she'd carried on for her father and the Capitol dead in the dirt it had seemed Olga was truly lost. What could she do next with the short time she had left? She doubted many would forgive her, and she knew she'd never be able to forgive herself. But it was like Crown said, you do the hokey pokey and then _you turn yourself around_. Olga decided to do what she had never done before… follow the example of victors she had long failed to recognise the value and formidable courage of. She chose to follow Mercy's example of caring for the young, and to that end in her final few years could often be found doing volunteer work in the name of helping the youth of District Two and giving talks to them about the value of teamwork, trust and accepting each other in spite of differences… and how very wrong the toxic, vile ideals of the old regime and her own father had been. It had taken so very long, but Olga had learnt the Capitol wasn't all knowing or all powerful. They were as flawed as anybody and anything else.

#13: **Gwenith Rosebud** – With her remaining years Gwenith took to making individual memorials of every single tribute who had ever died in the Games, even the cruellest amongst them,. Victors who died in and out of the arena were included as well. But when that was done Gwenith still had time left, and she wasn't keen to spend it in a cosy, uneventful retirement. Instead Gwenith split her time between two ventures she saw as matters of immense personal importance. The first was spending hundreds and thousands of her free hours helping those who, like herself, had grown with birth defects or deformities that had caused an unjust amount of bullying. Gwenith would guard them and do whatever it took for such people to have a place in the world and the knowledge they had somebody watching over them. The second was to fulfil a childhood dream of hers and become the mayor of District Nine. Let Hovis represent them on a nationwide scale, she just wanted to be the leader of her homeland and do her best to keep them all living their best lives. She ended up winning the vote unanimously.

#24: **Crown Martins** – Retiring from the life of a rebel and being a damn good mentor, Crown was content to do the thing he always had been known for doing – make candy. Alongside Harp he continued to work in his fancy club, the place only expanding and becoming bigger with every passing month. It was truly a place where the magic happened, whether it was amazing confectionary or just the novelty of watching Crown chatter on and on like a madman when he was in a really good mood, and frankly this was very often. Life was as sweet as the candies he loved to make. Each shift would always end the same way, as quickly became a tradition. Cookies were passed all around and a minute of silence was held in the name of the his and Harp's patron who had loved those biscuits so very much – Crystal. Even with age allowing him down, it never managed to shut him up. In fact, the only thing that made Crown go silent – and Harp become overjoyed to the point of tears – was the statue of Crystal, made from her namesake, given as a gift by Platinum and displayed in the main entrance of the club for all of time.

#29: **Crimson Flanders** \- It was pure sweet dreams fuel to Crimson that she had survived long enough to see the fall of the Capitol and the deaths of those who had violated her decade after decade. Some would call her cruel for the sadistic joy she hot from watching the Capitol Games, but Crimson did not care. She'd gotten exactly what she wanted out of them - closure. With Snow dead and his regime to one day just be a bad memory there was really just one thing for Crimson to do. Brainy as she was and perfect as her grades were, Crimson really had no desire to seek out the career her younger self had wanted. It did not matter anymore and she had all the money she needed anyway. No, what Crimson wanted was to finally be able to reconnect with her family, the people who she had bared Snow's cruel demands for the sake of for so very long. Now that her family knew the whole story any issues they once had were banished to the ether for good. It was a reunion with not a dry eye to be seen. For the rest of her days Crimson would surround herself with her nieces, nephews, grand nieces and grand nephews, all of them eager to get to know their war hero aunt and include her on all manner of activities. With her family safe and sound and her freedom restored, there was only one word that could describe Crimson - _happy_.

#34: **Snag Nakamura** – Now that he was no longer confined to a wheelchair it seemed that the world had opened up for Snag. While he was content to watch his daughters grow and his family similarly grow as grandchildren inevitably appeared, Snag decided to use his newfound ability to run for the most noble of causes – a sponsored marathon run across Panem to raise money for all who, like himself for the vast bulk of his life, could not walk. Exhausting as it was he nonetheless completed the run just as he vowed to. After that Snag was often found either spending time with his family, working on a poetry anthology or playing hover ball. Life was good.

#35: **Librae Ogilvy** – With her time stranded in Hawaii over and done with, Librae returned to living her best life in District Four. Sure, it was strange and sometimes a little hurtful so many things had changed and so many people had died while she was gone, but she kept on living. It was the most respectful thing she could do. Librae ended up becoming a full time surfing teacher, passing on her iconic skills to the next generation. But greater things than that were in Librae's future – the not-so-simple surfer eventually heard that Hawaii was to become District Fifteen (the District of Exploration) and they wanted her to lead it! Righteous!

#37: **Beetee Latier** – Just as the doctors had predicated Beetee regained his ability to walk sooner rather than later. Of course, Beetee's strongest asset had never been his legs, but rather his genius mind. Beetee put it to good use, dedicated himself to creating dozens and dozens of technological marvels to aid the nation as it entered a golden age. With Beetee at the helm resources were made to last longer, people's lifespans increased and much of the environmental damage inflicted by the Capitol was being undone, day after day. Of course, it wasn't all work and no play. When Beetee had the occasional day off he could be found in the open ranges of district ten playing golf. He was, after all, the nation's champion at the sport.

#39: **Rhyder Overwhill** – Being the son of the first volunteer who furthermore caused careers to exist had always given Rhyder a sort of fixation on career tributes, even if like his late mother he was not one himself. To this end Rhyder took it upon himself to try and help the career cadets from Two and One to make something of themselves. Not only did he try, but he succeeded. Many of them came from troubled backgrounds, or had been brainwashed and needed help finding their way in a world without the old regime. Rhyder ensured all of them found work and purposed, whether it was as part of the replacement for Peacekeepers – Storm Fighters – or youth support work across Panem and the gradually expanding world beyond. Rhyder believed he had managed to start repairing the accidental damage his father had caused and liked to think his parents would be proud. On the other side of the curtain as they may have been, little whispers within the wind would suggest they were proud, always and forever.

#40: **Lammy Phyronix** – It took a while, but Lammy managed to accomplish the ultimate task that a trapper could possibly undertake – she'd been able to trap and eliminate every single dangerous mutt that remained in the country. But Lammy believed her task was only halfway done. She'd grown knowing how to trap mutts and kill them, but who said every mutt had to be dangerous? Where they not created to be killers from the start? It took a lot of research, especially as several vital files had been lost during the rebellion, but Lammy ended up working out the perfect genetic formula to create harmless mutts and through this achieved the accomplishment of her life – a series of cute, cuddly monsters that doubled both as pets and therapy animals. It was a complete success and a showing that even things built for evil, like mutts, could be changed to something good. It could happen if people would only try.

#42: **Spool Nylon** – Having always been a man with a silver tongue and somebody who loved the spotlight, what better sort of career was there for Spool than one on the TV screen? Spool had plenty of charisma and knew exactly how to put it to the best of use. It started off as small things like commercials and the occasional public service announcement, but before long Spool had progressed to being the much loved host of 'Panem Today, Panem Tomorrow', a show covering all ongoing events and with the purpose of keeping hope alive in the nation as the scars of the past gradually healed. But his biggest achievement came when, after the actor who portrayed famous character Lawrence had been killed in the rebellion, Spool took on the role of one half of the iconic soap opera pair, Fiona and Lawrence. As much as Spool enjoyed the role, there was still a role he preferred to anything else in life – the role of Cupid's father and Lammy's husband. He'd not trade it for anything.

#44: **Platinum Twist** – As could be expected it took a while for Platinum to relearn how to walk on her new prosthetic leg. But, relearn she did and soon she was able to run just like she used to be able to before the rebellion. Her position within the government was a huge commitment and often left her without lots of free time, but through it she was able to help humanity and especially District One. There were plenty of people like her past-self, desperate for attention and longing for a purpose in life, that needed help. Help she intended to give. Her humanitarian efforts were able to truly clean up the Luxury District and make it more beautiful than ever. Furthermore, as a sort of respect to the infamously unstable Mascara, Platinum led the way in providing the upmost of care and support for those born with conditions that may otherwise cause them and others harm. If the future was to be truly safeguarding then every last person mattered, no matter who they were. When asked why she cared so very much about the youth of One there was only one way Platinum would respond – showing the picture within her locket, an image of herself and her late daughter Spinel from a time where they'd been, if for a moment, happy together.

#50: **Haymitch Abernathy** – With the war won Haymitch initially had little idea as to where he could go next. He'd never really thought about more than the rebellion, how to maybe help his often-doomed tributes and where his next drink coming from. But now, he had a future that was quite uncertain… and, honestly, that scared him. But fear did not hold Haymitch within its clutches for long. It took rehab and therapy, but Haymitch was soon ready to face the world once more and happened to find quite the opportunity almost by fluke. A night spent furiously writing his worst memories onto paper as a coping mechanism made something apparent… he was damn good as writing. So good in fact that the story of his own life and that of all of the other victors living and dead become a nationwide best seller. The name of that famous book? Cheating Death.

#55: **Wattzon Holmes** – The only care Wattzon had for the district that had treated him like trash growing up was reserved for Clarkson, Arendellian and tributes he had to mentor. But with his little sister dead and there no longer being tributes, it was high time he moved on. Wattzon, with Clarkson tagging along for the ride, ended up making their way down to District Nine where Trevy had returned. The escapee of the Games had been putting together a new sort of hustle and wanted Wattzon by his side for it. Just one look at the business venture and Wattzon knew he was in it for the long haul. Why ever would he say no to being co-owner of a theme park?

#62: **Enobaria Golding** – The new world order lacked the adoration of fighting that the previous world had adored, and so for a time Enobaria really had no idea what to do other than drink or watch violent video tapes. Inspiration struck the fanged victor when it turned out one form of violent entertainment had slipped through the cracks and survived to see the new dawn – cage fighting! With her experience as a victor and sheer ferocity it was easy for Enobaria, fighting under the pseudonym 'The Tooth Bitch', to begin winning titles left and right. That said, half of the tournaments had to ban her when her signature move, 'Nothing But The Tooth', left several other cage fighters in the emergency room for weeks on end.

#66: **Spud Munroe** – Spud had never chosen the life of adventure; indeed, the life of adventure had chosen him. With the war and the Games forever over Spud returned back home to District Eleven, content to busy himself with tending to the family farm and nurturing many a garden to life and success. A quiet life, but one that suited him just fine. A shock to the nation, Spud ended up hitting things off with rough and rumble Johanna! It was very much a low-key sort of thing with them, but rumour has it that they were taking it to mid-key soon enough. Spud certainly did not mind this one bit, content to live his new life without fear holding him back any longer.

#70: **Annie Cresta** – Some scars of trauma would never truly go away, but Annie found it so much easier to cope with the terrible memories of the Games and the rebellion thanks to the best of medication and the therapists she could now see. The once bubbly and innocent clumsy girl of the past seemed to have been bought back to life, even if just a little. While mostly content to raise her son Sinbad and provide whatever aid and care was needed for those in Four this wasn't to be the only thing Annie would do. Indeed, would go on to find her calling as the head of postal delivery in Four. Rumour has it that she wants to petition for there to be a District Sixteen – The District of Post. One can only wonder how this may turn out!

#71: **Johanna Mason** – With her family dead and her enemies similarly dead there was little for Johanna to dwell on, past or present. It was up to her to build her own future… and build it she did! For a while after the end of the rebellion Johanna joined up with the efforts to explore the world outside of Panem, efforts that would one day become a fully forged district. It was through Johanna's bravery and boundless desire to get the fuck out of Panem that the nation realised they were not alone – France had begun to rebuid itself as a nation called Ovum. When Johanna wasn't doing all of this she was typically handing out with Spud, her infamously prickly and stony centre developing a soft spot for the guy.

#72: **Numi Marrolto** – It was a relief to Numi that her twin sister had managed to turn up alright in spite of the fluke-like odds. She'd already lost so much, but losing her twin would have truly broken her. With the most important member of her family alive and well Numi was able to keep her chin up and continue her rap career. Under the new democracy and without any of the cruelties or restrictions of the old regime holding her back Numi was a success story by all accounts. Numi, or Numilicious Beatz when on-stage, had a wide range of topics to rap about… but in the end, she'd always make time for a rap on the importance of pacifism. She hoped it would make her fallen idol and best friend Bentley proud of her. She never quite moved past the guilt of how saying yes to the Final Games had send Belle to her death, but so long as Numi lived there was never a time where fresh flowers were not laid down on the young rapper's grave. Numi hoped Bentley forgave her for straying from the right path. Some say a grand breeze when Numi first expressed this was proof tat he did… but it was surely just a coincidence… or, was it?

#74: **Katniss Everdeen** – Katniss had no interest in remaining as a big public symbol and returned to quiet life within District Twelve. After all the action and war she'd lived through she wanted to simply return to her old days of hunting and doing what she found to be a calming sort of daily routine. Of course, eventually Katniss found herself wanting a bit more in life. A loner and a fan of near solitude as she was… it wasn't really living. That was why she decided to pick up where Prim left off before her tragic death and began to train to become a nurse. It was, in a way, the family trade after all. Between this, hunting, her eventual marriage to Peeta and, after many years of uncertainly on the prospect, motherhood… Katniss felt at peace.

#74: **Peeta Mellark** – Peeta returned to District Twelve with Katniss, content with what he had in life. As time went by his scars faded away bit by bit, even if they never truly vanished, and so he was able to commit towards becoming a highly accomplished baker within District Twelve once it had been rebuilt after the prior firebombing. As bad as the things the Capitol did to him were, it all failed to take away his talent and joy for baking. When he wasn't busy baking or spending time with Katniss he was usually seen as a common visitor to the memorials built in place of the destroyed arenas. The arena of the Seventy Fourth Hunger Games was never lacking in flowers or cakes laid down on the graves of the twenty two children who died in that terrible forest. Peeta's heart went out to them all, from Marvel to Clove to Gadget to Urchin and so on down to Rammy, Sable and Rue. Peeta believed they, and every single other fallen tribute, deserved to be remembered.

#Final: **Cupid Sol** – Being the sole victor to win the Hunger Games without killing, or even injuring, a single person it was little surprise that Cupid was the face of the new age. The values of love, kindness, tolerance and pacifism he had displayed in and out of the arena gave a great amount of hope to the recovering nation. For a lot of his teen years Cupid was - when not busy with school – travelling across the nation to give peace talks. He was an outright celebrity whether his audience was from the Capitol or the Districts. But being a spokesperson wasn't his sole career venture. How could it be when his blog was back and better than ever? The nation just couldn't get enough of Cupid's energetic and eager commentary on all forms of romance across the nation, whether fiction or reality. A place like Panem needed love, and lucky for Cupid he had no shortage of it. Such a thing would be impossible when in the care of Spool and Lammy.

* * *

" _In spite of everything I still believe, deep down, humans really aren't bad_." – Mizar Aldjoy.

 **THE END**


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